


Paint me Black and Blue (I'll Still Stand by You)

by firetoflame



Series: Sunnyside-Up in New York [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Drama, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Healing, Parent Phil Coulson, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-05-19 16:39:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 78,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5974315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firetoflame/pseuds/firetoflame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Phil still owns a diner. Senior year is upon them. And Clint learns that family isn't always about blood, but sometimes it still is:</p>
<p>The guy looks up, some smug smirk brewing behind the bruises Steve's left there.</p>
<p>"Oh, hell no," Clint says, stomach plummeting.</p>
<p>If the smirk wasn't enough, then the eyes are like a punch to the gut: hard, icy blue. The kind of stare that is deliberately unnerving and alluring all at once. There's a reason they used to be able to swindle old folks out of their souvenir money as kids.</p>
<p>"Barney?"</p>
<p>The guy gives a raspy chuckle. "Hey, little brother. Long time, no see . . . but I guess you're not so little anymore, huh?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Another Beginning

Life can be funny.

So can happiness.

It can creep up on you, out of the blue, so fast that sometimes it takes a while to notice.

If you told Clint a year ago that he'd have a real home, that Phil Coulson and Tony and Steve wouldn't just be part of his foster family, but his real family, and that he'd have Natasha, one of the most wonderful people he's ever met, by his side, he'd never have believed.

But now, he doesn't remember the last time he stopped smiling.

Happiness.

It's a weightless sort of feeling.

Giddy, almost.

Sometimes tight. Squeezing his chest until he's breathless, setting his skin on fire.

Turning his mind in circles.

Dizzying.

And as fast as he's falling, he still wouldn't change a thing.

. . .

The first day of school blooms to life while Clint's pleasantly buried beneath at least three inches of comforter and two pillows (one of which probably belongs to Tony). Then again, they smell pretty good, faintly of oranges and that sweet vanilla bean that he sometimes catches off Natasha's hair, so maybe they're hers.

An annoying prod to his side brings him out of hibernation.

"What?" he groans, scrunching up his nose and rubbing it against the sheets; they sort of smell like Natasha, too _. Huh_ , well if that isn't telling.

"Get up!"

It's Phil, who sounds kinda urgent, so Clint pops his head up, eyes still closed but he's definitely paying attention. Mostly.

"Clint! Tony! Up! I want a family photo this year."

"Wha—aw, Phil, _no_." Clint promptly flops back down in bed after he sees the time. Six-oh-seven. What kind of picture does Phil want at six in the morning?

"Don't make me come back in here," Phil says with the kind of seriousness that makes Clint do things like take summer school.

He doesn't come back, but five minutes later a weight falls on Clint's chest and he lets out an exaggerated _oomph_. He spies between a break in the covers and a mop of red hair tickles his nose. He wraps his arms around the lump, blankets and all, squeezing Natasha to his chest and humming as she squeals a raspy kind of early morning laugh: his favourite kind.

"This was a dirty trick," he says loud enough that Phil will hear down the hall.

"Good morning," Natasha says, shoving the blankets down between them so she can see his face, drawing a line across his forehead with the point of her finger.

These easy touches and gentle caresses from her are his favourite, especially in the mornings when she's still warm and snuggly from sleep. Leaning into the touch, he sighs. "It is now," he agrees as reaches up to kiss her.

Natasha dodges, though, and slips through his hands, standing beside the bed before he registers that she's moved.

Clint's brows furrow. "No good morning kiss?"

Natasha bites her lip, a tricky grin on her face as she dodges the hand that reaches for her hip, prompting Clint to sit up, find his footing, and stand to follow her dance across the room. She finally stops, mainly because he's pinned her up against the closet door. The breath that escapes her is minty sweet—her teeth just brushed—and he ducks his head. When he does she reaches forward and pecks his lips, then the side of his face.

"Phil offered me twenty bucks to get you out of bed," she says, laughing when he looks at her, incredulous and probably equal parts frumpy.

"Is that all I'm worth to you?" he asks, scratching at the back of his head. He watches her take an appreciative scan of his midriff where his shirt rides up, and if he lingers in his stretch a little longer for her benefit, _well_ , he does like the way she watches him: head tipped, lip caught between her teeth, a vacant kind of smile pulling at her cheeks.

Sometimes he wonders what exactly she sees in him of all people. How a girl like her chooses a guy like him. Then he'll catch that hundred-watt stare of hers and a pink flush will crawl up the sides of her face and if she isn't blushing at him right now, Clint's dreaming and he never wants to wake up.

But she _is_ blushing and he _isn't_ dreaming.

Clint lowers his arms and as soon as he does her arms are around his neck, twisting the short hairs there, before crashing their mouths together. She sucks him in for a filthy kiss, one that sends his heart spiralling out of control as she rubs up against him, making all kinds of sounds he normally only hears in his dreams.

Or when they're alone.

Like really, _really_ alone.

"Uh, gro—ugh, Phil, _no_! My eyes. It's too early for this!"

Tony bolts out of his bed across the room as Natasha breaks away, grinning a Cheshire grin. A flash of brown hair and red flannel pants is all they see before Tony's locked himself in the hall bathroom, mock retching noises filtering under the door.

"What was that all about?" Clint asks, eyebrow raised, wondering if he has time for a cold shower.

Natasha shrugs. "Phil offered me double for Tony. It's been a productive morning." She pecks him on the cheek again, giving him one more full-body scan before sauntering out of the room with a little skip and a devilish kind of grin.

"Dirty, rotten trick," Clint mutters, rubbing his cheek and thumbing his way through his closet for a change of clothes. He's going to have to talk to Phil about corrupting his girlfriend. Though, admittedly, the Tony thing was kind of funny. And when Tony finally emerges from the bathroom and ducks his head into the room, hesitating just a bit like Natasha might pounce on him, Clint doesn't bother to hides his snickers.

. . .

As far as first day of school photos go, Clint definitely knows they've had worse. He remembers the first year he was here, bulldozing his way by Phil when he'd asked him to stand in front of the diner with Tony and Steve. Clint hadn't talked to them much then, but he's been told his stare was frigid and that's why it took so long for the guys to warm up to him. Clint doesn't say it out loud, but back then that had been the point. He didn't want to get to know these people. He'd just wanted to get out.

The next year was a little less hostile and a little more . . . _explosive_. Tony had been hauling some crazy firework concoction around in his bag that morning and the thing shot off the diner steps and through the double-panned glass doors behind them just before the breakfast rush was due. Granted to say, that had probably been Clint's favourite photo. The camera caught them all just as the window exploded, sending them all fleeing under a cloud of crystal like something out of Mission Impossible. The fact that they'd all walked away unscathed was probably the only reason they could laugh about it now. Also the look on Tony's face as he fled from Phil was etched into his brain as one of the highlights of his life.

Despite the pure adventure of last year's photo session, Clint easily switches gears, deciding that having Natasha squeezed in the frame between him and Steve makes this his favourite photo, hands down. Also having Thor and Bruce crash the session at the last second makes it one of those things he'll keep locked away in the part of his brain that clings to the little dysfunctional family he's a part of.

The fact that Phil tears up as he snaps the last photo and they all dog pile him to the ground probably has something to do with that as well. He also doesn't miss sneaky Peggy with her camera and he suspects he knows what she's getting Phil for Christmas, and let's just say it'll probably involve more tears.

As they pile into the van, senior year seems to be shaping up to a good start.

That is until he actually gets to school. Because, well, _ugh!_

He's already over school by the time first period lets out. Maybe it's because he spent all summer staring at his laptop, cyber-communicating with some nerdy teacher who likes to spend their holidays forcing essays on unsuspecting youth, or maybe it's because Natasha's not in class with him.

She was smart and squeezed her senior English credit out online over the summer, so he finds her on a spare in the library perusing a college application manual.

His stomach jitters because it's too freaking early to be thinking about that.

She tosses the manual onto the chair next to her when she sees him. Her smile—brilliant and meant just for him—makes him reach out for her, pulling her to her feet.

"I wondered if you were going to come walk me to biology."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Library's kind of out of the way. It's much closer to the English department."

He threads his arm around her waist. "Tash, you know I'd always go out of my way for you."

She leans away enough to look up at him, a twisted smile on her face. "You're a sap this morning."

He crooks half a grin, but says, "I mean it."

She stops them before they round the next corner and shoves him up beside the bank of lockers, stretching up on her toes to reach his lips. It's hard and fast, the kiss sure, making a smacking noise as she pulls away.

"I love you, Clint Barton," she tells him. Then the bell rings, classes empty, and Natasha turns away like it never happened.

When they get to the bio classroom they sit in the back, Natasha's elbow bumping up against his arm. Bruce and Tony both join them a few minutes later, bickering in robotics lingo already and about five minutes into class Steve shows up, and to their surprise he's toting a shifty-eyed Bucky behind him.

Natasha perks up immediately, her features lighting up as Steve hands a hall pass to the teacher and introduces Bucky to the class.

Bucky plops down next to Natasha a few minutes later and immediately she launches into fast Russian explicative. Clint picks out things like shrugs and indifferent facial expressions and the word "Mr. Fury" before Natasha gives him an English rundown while they're standing at a lab bench, heads bent over a tray of frog intestines.

"Apparently we weren't the only one's enrolled in summer school. Did you know they gave him a credit for knowing Russian? It's like a second language opportunity equivalency thing. "

"Good thing they didn't do that with you," Clint says. "You'd have graduated already and left me behind."

She's already fluent in Russian and English. He knew she could converse well enough in Spanish to get by and had started to pick up French last year, which she had signed up to take again along with beginners Italian. He doesn't know where she stores them all, but he does enjoy hearing her accent flicker as she adapts. He's heard her repeat things he's said before just to mimic how the words should sound.

"I wouldn't leave you," she says. "Who would clean up my frog guts?"

He smirks. "So Fury worked some magic then?"

"Yeah, they gave him co-op credits for being involved in Tony and Bruce's robotics project and pushed through his generic courses so he could start senior year with us."

"I thought Bucky had to work to help his mom out?"

"She's doing much better. They got her on some meds for her arthritis and she's picking up more shifts at the bakery in town. Plus Bucky mentioned something about a small scholarship."

"I'm glad," Clint says, glancing over his shoulder. "Steve looks really happy."

As it turns out Steve is immensely happy and by lunch Bucky's cracking some of his own smiles. He's not in most of their classes, not exactly rolling with the academic crowd after missing so much school, but the fact that he's there is all that really matters.

. . .

As the first week of school draws to a close and the second begins, Natasha receives news that her emancipation is officially done and when she and Phil walk out of the courthouse together, Clint's there to meet them.

School's just let out for the day and though he'd offered to drive her, Phil said it probably wasn't good to start the year off with both of them missing class, so as they wave from the sidewalk, Phil speeds off in Lola, the red bumper shinning under the afternoon sun.

Clint nods his head and walks Natasha back to the van that he's parked down one of the side streets because parking downtown sucks.

She's done up kind of fancy and as they walk she shrugs out of her blazer and into her leather jacket, pulling the clip from her hair to let it hang loose at her shoulders.

"So, how should we celebrate your new found freedom?" he asks, tugging on a free curl.

"How about you write my french paper and I'll take a nap?"

He opens the passenger door for her. "Mmm, a nap sounds good."

"I wasn't talking about _that_ kind of nap."

"There's more than one kind?" Clint teases.

Natasha plays along, wiggling her eyebrows. "Well, there's the kind where you sleep, and the kind where you . . . _don't_."

"I think I could be persuaded into either," Clint says, following the line of her lips as her smile curls into her cheeks.

There's a dark kind of chuckle that rumbles through her chest. "I'll keep that in mind."

"You'll probably regret letting me near your french homework, though."

He closes the door and walks around the van, climbing in behind the wheel. He folds his hands over the wheel and when he looks over she's staring at him kind of funny. No, not at him, but his hands. "What?"

"Will you take me somewhere?"

"Name it," Clint says, twisting the ignition. "Where are we going?"

"Can you take me to write my beginners?"

Clint snaps his eyes down from the rear-view mirror to look at her. That's not exactly what he'd been expecting. Honestly he figured they'd end up getting ice cream or something, but maybe this freedom thing was rubbing off on her. "Yeah, we can do that."

She nods, resting her head back against the seat.

When they walk out of the DMV two hours later with Natasha's freshly printed beginners in her hand, they go get ice cream. And that night they celebrate with pizza because the tip overflow jar is starting to burst.

"You know, Natasha, if you wanted to write it, I would have taken you," Phil says, parking it next to them at the kitchen table.

She shrugs. "I guess I'd never really thought about it. There was always someone else who could drive."

"I suppose I would have brought it up eventually," Phil says. "Now that things are settling. But it's good you did it. Who knows where you'll be this time next year. Being able to drive will make college a heck of a lot easier."

Clint's throat swells around his pizza and for the second time since school started the idea of college makes his blood run cold. He can't wrap his head around the fact that in eight months everything about their lives is going to change. Clint's been here before: the life altering moves, the three-sixty life changes, those times when people that always promised to be there don't show up.

When he looks over at Natasha she's laughing at something Phil said, wiping tomato sauce from her lips with the back of her hand and his heart pounds unsteadily.

The thought of her being able to drive away from him makes him sick and suddenly he doesn't feel like pizza or even the ice cream they just had and he excuses himself early claiming something about English homework.

When Natasha slips into his room later to say goodnight she leans against the doorframe looking pensive. He's got his arm pillowed under his head, staring at the ceiling, but he opens his other arm to her and she snuggles in beside him for just a moment. She brushes her finger along the side of his face, tracing his jaw. "I know you didn't really have to work on English," she says. "What's wrong?"

He doesn't look at her because the thoughts are still too tangled up with the emotion inside his chest and if he tries to explain it'll come out sounding like a mess and the last thing he wants to be for her is a mess. She's had enough of that for one lifetime. He wants to be her rock, the thing she grapples for when the world doesn't make sense, and he can't be that if he's freaking out about losing her to something that isn't even a reality yet.

That's the worst of it though, really. The unknown.

"Tell me," she whispers, her fingers brushing over his lips.

He presses a kiss to the pad of her thumb and forces the edge of his mouth up. "It's nothing. Just tired. Having gym last period really sucks." He laughs despite himself. "Probably should have taken you up on that nap when you offered."

He knows it's a weak excuse, but he thinks she believes it, at least somewhat because she only lingers for another moment, just long enough to whisper _love you_ against his skin before slipping out of his bed and up the stairs to her own room.

It's a few minutes later, when Clint's right on that precipice of sleep, that Tony barges into the room, flicking on his lamp. He starts pulling his pajamas on, still chewing on half a slice of pizza. "So, Phil thinks you're having a mood. Is this a thing? Should we all be worried?"

Clint groans and rolls over. "I'm sleeping."

"Well, you know, you kind of bailed on your girlfriend tonight." Clint looks back at Tony with one of those frigid glares. "Just saying. And that's not usually your M.O. since you two are basically joined at the hip, so Phil thinks you're either dying from some yet to be disclosed illness or having a mood. So, what'll it be, Jemma or Nyquil?"

Clint rolls over. "I'm gunna go sleep with Steve."

"Not sure Bucky will appreciate that, but you do you. And I'm not really one to get in the middle of people's relationships since I'm not really about the whole relationship thing, except, you know, if Pepper asked or something, but Natasha's kind of the new fixture around here and I guess I don't like seeing her upset. And dude, tonight, she kind of looked a little hurt. So if you're not ready to talk about it or whatever, it's fine, but don't drag her through your mind mess. We've all been there and we know it sucks for the people that get sucked into our heads, so just, I don't know; figure out how not to fuck it up. You two have a real good thing together. And I'd hate to see it blown up over stupid shit. Plus I'm not the shoulder to cry on type, so if you two break-up you're moving in with Steve for real."

"I'm not breaking up with Natasha," Clint says emphatically, a little louder than necessary, but he kind of feels like he just needs to put it out there. That's not what this is about at all and the fact that everyone picked up on it means his mental demons must have been showing a lot more than he thought.

Tony blinks at him for a long time, before nodding. "Good, then get your shit together."

Tony flicks the lamp off at that and for a moment Clint's not sure if the dark makes everything worse.


	2. These Minefields we still Walk

The next morning Clint feels like he hasn't really slept at all—a dry pain throbbing behind his eyes—but that's probably because he was up half the night feeling bad about bailing on Natasha the same day the emancipation was finalized. In hindsight it looks real bad—feels even worse—and if this doesn't make him out to be an ass, he doesn't know what will.

And after Tony's warning, he prepares for it. Something. All morning he waits, dressing and cleaning up in the bathroom, expecting Natasha to come storming down the stairs, eyes fiery and hard. She doesn't though, because she's already downstairs, munching on a bagel and a few slices of orange that Steve tips onto her plate.

Clint pauses in the doorway of the kitchen, hand tucked around the back of his head awkwardly, waiting for the dagger eyes, but as far as he can tell, Natasha isn't acting any different. Finally, he slips into the seat beside her, hesitant, but she looks up at him over her orange slice and the corner of her mouth tips up. When he reaches out and brushes his hand over her knee it turns into a full smile.

The rest of breakfast is quiet: just a low-key morning as far as he's concerned. She doesn't say much to him, but that's not exclusive. Everyone's a little preoccupied with school; it's barely a month in and already they're swamped with papers and projects.

Still, Natasha doesn't shy away from his touches; she still buries her head against his chest when he wraps his arms around her in the garage.

She still sneaks into the seat beside him in the back row of the van.

Still laughs at his groggy morning jokes.

There's no cold shoulder. No angry eyes like maybe he'd imagined in his dreams.

The worst fight they'd ever had together had been more staged then real and only because she was trying to protect him, so all in all, he's not exactly sure what a real fight with Natasha looks like.

They've always gotten along and been able to give each other space, but more often than not it's each other they seek out when things aren't right. A grounding force. So maybe it seems like there's a bit more hesitancy in her touches and looks than normal, but maybe he's just over-thinking everything.

Maybe it was everyone else that had blown things out of proportion.

Their worry was appreciated, but he and Natasha had seen a lot together. They could read each other better than this. They were fine.

She tips her head against his shoulder as Steve pulls out of the driveway. As Clint slips his hand in hers, she stiffens, looking up suddenly to his eyes, like she hadn't realized she'd moved. It's almost like she's looking for some sort of permission.

Whatever it is though, she must find it, because she settles back against him and palms a circle against the skin of his hand.

The rest of the day is oddly staggered like that. Like they're tripping over each other in an anxious, embarrassed stream of almost-touches. It's almost as if they're getting to know each other all over again and it's wigging him out. He thinks about pulling her aside at lunch and just asking her if they're okay, but she picks up around the others, laughing and commenting freely, the nervous energy only returning at the end of the period when Clint stands to walk her to French class.

She takes his offered hand, but they're out of sync as they walk and it's weird. He just wants the day to be over so he can go home and fix whatever this is. If it is anything? Maybe they were just having an off day.

"I'll see you after class," he says, smiling down at her as they stop outside the door.

"I'll be here," she quips, with half a smile. She turns then and slips inside, looking back at him for a short moment like she's forgetting something.

He tries not to read too much into her actions, too much into the fact that on any other day she would have kissed him before going inside.

The door closes with a puff and he blows out the breath in his lungs. Time to meet up with Steve and go run off some of the jumbled feelings in his gut. Man, did he ever regret fitness after lunch.

Clint showers in two minutes flat, scrubbing the sweat from his hair before hopping out and towel drying just in time to hear the bell ring. Steve leaves the keys with him before he goes to meet Bucky. If he hurries he'll beat Natasha to the van.

On the way there, pushing his way through crowds and ducking the frantic opening of locker doors, he gets two texts: one from Tony, bailing on a ride home and one from Phil, telling him to take the trash out because he's got a meeting.

Clint arrives at the van and slips his phone back in his pocket just in time to catch a flash of red hair parting through the crowd of emerging students.

He nods to Natasha as he climbs in the driver's side, reaching over and popping the door open enough for her to slide in. He's got the van on and in reverse before she's even finished buckling because if they don't get out now it'll be an hour before they can escape the crowds. It's like a bad beach rush out here after school. And no one knows how to stay on a side walk.

"Guess it's just you and me for a while," he says conversationally, checking the side mirrors again. "Phil's got a meeting. Tony's meeting up with Bruce and Pym to talk about investors and Steve's on the supper rush. Though I'm sure Bucky will stop by to keep him company." He grins at her and after what feels like a beat too long her lips quirk up.

"Okay."

The word makes him uncomfortable because he can't tell what she's thinking. Though instead of prodding, he lets her be, focusing on getting them home before rush hour starts.

Their first stop when they get home is the kitchen so Clint can deal with the garbage. After that he asks her if she's hungry to which she just shakes her head. He fills a glass of water, and sips it for a moment, watching the way she fiddles with the straps on her bag.

"It's quiet," he says, dropping his glass into the sink. "Been a while since we had the house to ourselves, huh?" He yawns and stretches out his shoulders. "Maybe we should take that nap you were talking about yesterday. I'm really regretting putting fitness in this semester." Giving his head a shake, he laughs. "The things Steve talks me into."

He holds out his hand to her and she takes it, glancing down at his arm for another beat. It's that hesitation again that gets to him.

He leads them upstairs, dropping his bag on the foot of his bed before following Natasha up to her room.

She places her bag on her desk, unzipping it and piling textbooks onto shelves.

Clint gives her two minutes before he steps up behind her and threads his arms around her waist, breathing her in, letting all the negative things just settle. He's not quite sure what's going on between them, but whatever it is, he doesn't like it. In fact, he's had just about enough of feeling like he needs to second guess all his actions.

But before he can verbalize this, Natasha pats the place where his hands are joined against her stomach before spinning in his arms, not quite looking at him.

The next thing he knows she's kissing him: open wet kisses that press along his jaw and everything escalates from zero to sixty before he's even registered that she's taking her clothes off.

She tugs on his clothes too, pulling his shirt over his head, thumbs hooked in his belt loops as she leads him towards the edge of the bed. When she backs up against it, she tips them so he's sprawled over her and uses her hands to pull down the straps on her bra.

Instinct drives Clint forward and the feel of Natasha warm and pliant under his hands makes his skin tingle in the most exhilarating way. He kisses the juncture between her shoulder and her neck, moving his lips across her chest before she pulls his face back up to hers, sucking him in for another breathless sort of kiss.

But as much as the thoughts in his brain are starting to scatter, something about it feels wrong. It's in the way she's touching him. Or maybe not really touching him?

It definitely feels different than before. Than all the other times they've been together. It's almost as if she's forcing herself and when her fingers shake against the hem of his pants he pulls away enough to look her right in the eyes and there he sees confusion more than anything.

He pushes up on his arms, turning his head to the side and sucking in a deep breath to clear his head. "Natasha," he breathes, "what are you thinking right now?"

She scoots up on her elbows, reaching for his face and turning his chin, like she means to kiss him again. Her eyes search his, confusion pulling her brows tighter and tighter. "You said you wanted to celebrate last night and we were teasing and I didn't know . . . maybe you meant this and I didn't think . . . you we're angry because we didn't . . ."

Ice shoots straight down Clint's spine as she tries to explain, but he gets the gist of it, and all the warm fire in his belly turns to bricks—hard and uncomfortable and heavy.

"God, no, Natasha!" He bolts upright. "No! That's not what last night was."

She looks absolutely shell-shocked as he pulls away, hands curling away from her skin. He's so furious at himself—that she even thought for a moment that this was about that—he has to close his eyes to calm down. When he opens them again it's to find her pulling her bra strap back over her shoulder, curling in on herself a little more. Hard blinks drive away the tears he can hear in her voice when she says, "I'm sorry, Clint. I . . . I don't know what you want."

The way her head shakes as she speaks unravels him because it's like a trance that she's trying to break.

Gentle, careful, like she's glass that he's cradling, he takes her face between his hands, slowly pulling her head to his. "Tash, this is not what last night was at all."

She blinks hard again. "I thought you were angry with me. You wouldn't tell me what was wrong and I thought about it all night and—"

"You thought it was because I wanted to sleep with you and we didn't, so you thought I was angry?" He almost chokes on the words. "Natasha, tell me you don't think I'd ever get angry at you for not wanting to have sex?"

"No . . ." She shakes her head. "I don't know . . ." Again she shakes her head. Swallows with a wet gulp. "No."

Clint sighs. Apparently even after everything they'd seen together they still had some things to learn about each other. Things to work on. Communication was a big one.

Natasha had gone out of her way to please him because she thought he was angry with her which was a total shift from that not-a-fight they had had once upon a time, but if he really sat and thought about it (analyzing the way Jemma would) it made sense. Living with Ivan had ingrained things in her. If she wanted to avoid his anger she went out of her way to do things he liked, to not make him angry: this walking on eggshells, this always seeking permission, waiting to see how he reacted. That's exactly what she had been like with him all day today, waiting for his reaction to everything, every touch, every smile, to see if it was welcome, to see if she could see anger in his eyes.

And the revelation makes Clint nauseous, to think she's in here, taking her clothes off because she thinks this is what he wants her to do.

But he doesn't want it if she doesn't want it. And he tells her exactly that and she watches him with too wide eyes, sitting on her bed and hugging her knees and when he's finished explaining how he'll never be angry at her for saying no to anything they do or don't do together, she folds herself into his arms, tucking herself in and around him. And finally, after a day spent tiptoeing over each other, it feels right. And the fact that he can tell, that he can pick up the minute differences in the way she moves, the way she breathes, the way she clings to him, speaks volumes, for as much as they don't know about each other there are things they do know. Truths engrained in their skin, more of them etching across the spaces they share every day.

"Tell me, then. What was bothering you yesterday?" she says after a while and it's imploring because after everything he's said there's still a part of her that doesn't believe it, the part of her that's still broken and twisted after Ivan that tells her people lie to get what they want.

He clears his throat, stroking his fingers through her hair and down her spine. He should probably get her shirt off the floor, but for now the blankets will do and he pulls the comforter around them.

"Clint?"

"Phil was talking about college and you getting your license and it just kind of hit me all of a sudden, you know, how this time next year everything could be different. And I guess it scared me and I couldn't deal, so I just had to get away from everyone for a bit. I didn't want to ruin your fun. Apparently I did though. I'm sorry." He kisses her temple. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

"What do you mean it'll all be different?' She looks up at him with a concern that makes his heart swell. "Do you not think we'll be together?"

He runs his fingers along her arm. "Tash, if there's one thing I'm certain of it's that I know I want to be with you no matter what."

She sits up, pushing off against his chest, brows furrowed. "So it's me you're not sure of, then?"

Clint follows her up, reaching for her hand. "I don't want to hold you back. I don't know if I'm college bound or not, but you . . . _you_ can do anything, Tasha. And I can't be the reason you don't. I guess Phil and the whole license thing yesterday just made me realize how easy it'll be to put a whole lot of distance between us next year."

Threading their fingers together, Natasha tugs him closer. "But you forgot to factor in how sure I am that I want to be with _you_ no matter what, which means whatever my plans are, you'll be there. I'm not going anywhere that'll take me away from you."

He smiles a little easier because she's stroking her nails along his jaw and this time when she kisses him it's with the soft kind of intensity that makes him want to scoop her close and never let go.

"You are part of my future, Clint Barton," she whispers against his cheek. "So we're just going to have to find a place that wants us both."

They fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other, finally taking that nap and when Clint wakes up everything feels a little more in order and the future doesn't seem so foggy anymore because for the first time in his whole life it feels like the people he cares about aren't about to walk out on him.

. . .

Another week passes and things settle down again. Phil stops looking at him and Natasha like something might be brewing and Clint thinks that they've reached a new kind of understanding together.

Not all changes are bad.

But then again, their relationship isn't exactly changing, just getting stronger. Deeper. There's something about being able to read Natasha, to know what she's thinking when she looks over at him, to understand how to wade through anger or frustration and come out the other side that makes him incredibly happy.

His parents hadn't exactly been stellar role models in that department, but the only thing he knew for sure was that he didn't want to fight the way they had—more often than not ending in bruises for his mom. There had been yelling. _No_ . . . screaming. Insults. Hard words thrown like knives. Always. Then dishes would break and beer bottles would topple.

They'd always find their way back to each other somehow, when tempers had simmered, but they were different each time, a little more broken, until there was no more fixing it, just running and hiding.

Considering he doesn't have a lot to work with in terms of experience, Clint thinks he's doing alright, that maybe they're doing all right, but he goes to see Jemma at the end of the week, meeting her outside the diner because this is one of those sessions he doesn't want anyone overhearing. And by that he mainly means Tony.

They meet at a coffee shop in town and Clint waves when he sees her at a booth. It's back near the bathrooms, settled far away from everyone else for privacy obviously and not for the ambiance.

With a few sips of caffeine under his belt and a deep breath, he tells Jemma what happened. He tries to keep eye contact, but talking about sleeping with your girlfriend—or, _er_ , not sleeping with her—with your therapist, was kind of a weird conversation. He stumbles through it though and to Jemma's credit she just nods and takes notes.

Maybe all the lewd comments Tony makes has hardened her to the topic.

"And what happened after?" she asks, putting down her pen.

"We didn't obviously," he says quickly, "because it felt weird. Awkward. And for a second there I thought maybe she wasn't just confused, but scared, and I . . ." he looks down at his coffee. "I don't want her to be afraid of me. Ever. Especially when we're  . . . like that."

"Clint," Jemma says softly. "What is it?"

He licks his lips, pushing his cup away. "I don't want to be like Ivan. He was . . . pressuring her and it terrified her. Every day I took her home and watched her walk through those doors knowing there was nothing I could do and she was afraid because of what he might do.

"When she touched me her hands shook, and right away everything felt wrong. I felt sick, like I had pressured her into it," his eyes flicker from his cup to Jemma, "but I hadn't, she just thought I wanted to and she thought I was mad. She was using it to try and fix something she thought was wrong . . . and that . . . it feels . . ." He lets it go because he's honestly at a loss for how many times he can explain how terrible it felt to realize what was happening.

Jemma nods. "Sometimes people—couples—use sex as a method of communication. As a way to express things that maybe they can't talk about. But with you two, with Natasha, sex won't be something that fixes problems, probably not for a very long time. Because of what happened with Ivan, part of being intimate still scares her and it sounds like associating those two things—the sex and the fact that you two had a misunderstanding—might have brought up some triggers for her."

"But before, when we . . . you know . . . she never looked like that. She was . . . happy I guess. And she definitely wasn't afraid of me."

"That's because when you're together like that it comes from a place of trust. She trusts you, Clint. Very, very much." Jemma smiles at him over her cup. "And for good reason. You used your instincts to stop a situation that might potentially hurt her. You knew some felt off. You didn't do anything wrong. In fact, this will show Natasha that she can walk away from situations between you two without fear of repercussion. I know it doesn't make you feel better about what happened, but the way you two worked through it sounds like it came from a good place."

"Yeah, but how do I stop it from happening again?"

Jemma nods. "You check in with her the same way you did this time. You talk things through when they don't make sense. Learning to communicate through the hard times is what is going to strengthen the foundation of your relationship."

Clint drops his head back against the booth. "Relationships are complicated."

"Said every man ever," she jokes. "But I'm glad you came to see me, Clint. It's a good step."

"Well, it was either you or Tony. And we both know how that would have turned out."

"Yes, we do," Jemma says, and though she doesn't smile, Clint thinks there's a knowing kind of twinkle in her eyes.

. . .

After the session finishes, Clint says goodbye to Jemma and swings by downtown to pick Natasha up from the library where she's been researching political movements in France. "Good talk?" she asks, climbing into the van, laden with a heavy looking book.

"It was," Clint agrees.

He's taking this communication thing seriously and though he hadn't told her the exact details of the session, he did warn her that he'd be talking to Jemma about what happened. Natasha had seemed relieved that they had worked through whatever had happened between them and if he still felt he needed to talk to someone she'd said she was happy to support him.

He leans over to kiss her. It's maybe more of a kiss than she's expecting, judging by the noise of surprise she makes in the back of her throat, but she melts into him regardless, and it isn't until someone honks at them, telling them they're blocking the pick-up lane, that they break away.

She's a little flushed, breathing deeper than usual, but she looks happy, and Clint feels happy. She bites her bottom lip, smiling to herself as he pulls away from the curb.

By the time they make it back to the diner it's after closing and they both clomp their way up the stairs, arms threaded over shoulders and around waists and they knock against the walls and doorframes because they don't quite fit like this.

Clint doesn't bother with his room except to grab his pajama pants and then he slips up the attic stairs. Natasha's standing in her bathroom in shorts and a tank top, brushing out the ends of her hair.

"You think it bothers Phil that you sleep up here most nights?"

Clint shrugs. "I think it did. Maybe it still does. But I don't think it's exactly a secret that we're together and we're obviously sleeping together. I mean, Tony did tell him that he supplied us condoms to make sure there were no, uh, _surprises_."

Natasha stares at the mirror, eyes hovering over the spot where her shirt rides up against her hip. Where her skinned is marred by white lines from the knife Ivan plunged inside her. "I'm not sure that is such a concern anymore."

Clint swallows. The surgeon had told her it would be almost impossible to carry a child to term and that if she ever did get pregnant she'd most likely miscarry before she found out.

She looks up, wistful in a way. "Though I guess you never can be too careful. Good old Tony looking out."

"Don't let him hear you say that. He's already got a god-complex."

"It probably just thrills him, going into the drug store to pick up condoms for everyone." She puts her brush back in a drawer and flicks off the bathroom light before climbing into bed beside him.

"Well, at least if the whole robotics company world domination thing doesn't work out he can always run his own safe sex ad campaign."

She yawns and her voice sounds a little more distant when she says, "The sad thing is he'd be really good at it, too."

"Hey, Tash?"

"Hmm?"

"You ever think about what you want to do. With college, after college?"

"Some days."

"Anything concrete yet?"

"Only you so far."

That makes him smile. "But you'll tell me when you decide on something?"

She tucks her face down against his neck, resting it right below his chin. "You'll be the first to know."

He kisses her forehead. "Night, Tash."

"Love you," she mumbles and the darkness isn't suffocating but sweet and tender and it's a warm silence that pulls them off to dream.

. . .

Clint and Natasha spend most of the last Saturday of the month under a mountain of homework. It's so bad they have to move it to the library just to keep things straight.

By the time they head home Clint feels like an alien to the world, having missed the sun set and everything. They drop into bed and rise even earlier to help set the diner up for a Sunday rush.

"Nice of you two to show up," Tony gabs. He's posted on the counter top, changing the lightbulb for one of the overhead chandeliers. There's a screwdriver tucked behind his ear, which means he's been at it for a while.

"Give me a break," Clint grumps. "We don't all have genius level IQ's."

Tony shrugs. "Fair enough. I smoked Steve at C.O.D last night even without your help."

"Steve doesn't know how to shoot straight."

"Yeah, but he like those surprise sneak attacks. I wonder where he's been learning those from." Tony shoots a sharp look at Natasha who pretends to be invested in the quality of her cuticles. If there was one this that irked Tony more than losing his tips to Natasha, it was losing video games to her.

"Where is Steve anyway?" Clint asks, feeling like he's dodged some sort of bullet as Tony's gaze becomes less hardened and more goofy.

"Probably lip locked with Bucky in the garage. I didn't want to interrupt as they say their farewells."

"Sure you didn't. That sounds exactly like you."

"Hey, I'm not a total—" There's a thundering crash, what sounds like the garbage can being kicked around the garage, and a cry that may or may not have been Steve.

"What was that?" Natasha asks, craning he neck to spy into the galley window.

"Okay, I know I'm usually one for jokes. But as the guy who is currently not getting any, I'm not tending to either Steve or Bucky's sex injuries," Tony says matter of factly, pointing his screwdriver at them for effect. "Not me! You got that?"

The garage door bursts open at that, and Clint catches sight of Steve and Bucky and . . . well, he's not quite sure what it is until the swinging door pops open and then Clint sees that it's a body . . . _Jesus, Christ!_

"Who the hell is this?" Clint asks, trying his best not to shriek.

Bucky makes a face that is dark and full of eyebrows and Clint wants to scream _what the hell does that mean_? But then Steve shrugs, hauling the guy—yeah it's definitely a guy—inside the door, body dragging like it's one of his punching bags he's manhandling. "Guy I knocked out," Steve confirms.

Tony hops off the counter for a better view, balking at the red raised welts on the side of the guy's face. "With what?"

There's a lengthy groan before Steve says, "A garbage can lid."

Tony gapes at him. "Who do you think you are? Rambo?"

Steve tosses the guy down; he sprawls on all fours and Steve gestures pathetically. "He was breaking into the garage."

The guy looks up, some smug smirk brewing behind the bruises Steve's left there. If the smirk wasn't enough, then the eyes are like a punch to the gut: hard, icy blue. The kind of stare that is deliberately unnerving and alluring all at once. There's a reason they used to be able to swindle old folks out of their souvenir money as kids.

"Oh, _hell no_ ," Clint says, stomach plummeting. "Barney?"

The guy gives a raspy chuckle. "Hey, little brother. Long time, no see . . . but I guess you're not so little anymore, huh?"


	3. What I see in You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers! Sorry for the delay. Real life sucks. I want to live and die in fandom. Anyway, here's the next chapter. It's full of feels. All kinds of feels. Also a smidge of sexytimes, so if that's not you're thing, please heed this warning ;) Proceed . . .

There's something to be said about the ability of Sam's pie to fix all manner of problems.

Even awkward family reunions apparently.

It's barely out of the oven, still piping and hot, filling the booth with that tart and sweet cherry scent that makes your mouth water when you linger. Clint knows the feeling, but he can't bring himself to lift his fork; instead he watches Barney stuff the pie into his mouth one full, dripping piece at a time.

The diner is filling with it's Sunday breakfast rush, and though the buzz around him must be starting to pick up judging by the way Natasha and Steve flit around him, order pads in hand, he doesn't hear anything but the heartbeat that seems to be going off in his head.

The _thump-thump_ brings little things into focus. The line of dust creasing the window ledge, the speckle of fingerprints made by some greasy-handed kid along the glass, the almost flicker of the bulb overhead, the sharp blue of Barney's eyes, the slit in the green padded bench seat behind him, grey, foam stuffing peeking out by his ear. These are the things that occupy his mind: little things—stupid and irrelevant.

But then there are the things that are not stupid or irrelevant, like the sound of his brother's husky laugh, like he's beyond it all, amused by the world, the same way they were when the tents went up and they people watched from the highest perch for their next target. The rub of his fingers over his head, pulling at confused strands of red and brown. Mama was blonde as far as Clint remembers and Daddy never grew his hair out far enough to tell, so Clint's not exactly sure where the red came from, but that and the toothy grin and too shiny eyes make Barney look a bit like a slick-fingered thief. Or maybe that's just memory painting the image because this Barney _isn't_ fifteen years old anymore. This Barney's grown up and out, still a little on the scrawny side, but the length of his limbs and the height make up for it.

This Barney . . . aw _hell_ , Clint doesn't know who _this_ Barney is. Heck, he doesn't even know what to say to this Barney, except—

"Can I get you a drink?"

A snort. "You gunna serve it, too?"

Clint's not sure if that's supposed to be a jibe, or Barney's ass backwards way of asking if Clint works here. He always did like talking in riddles, like he was smarter than what the fifth grade made him. So, Clint just stays quiet, just keeps watching.

"Cute gig you've got here," Barney says between mouthfuls, probably taking Clint's silence as some sort of acquiesce.

"It's home," Clint says, spinning the fork in his hand. He pushes his plate across the table and Barney groans some kind of thanks, prompting Clint to wonder how long it's really been since he had anything like this. Normalcy. Stability. A hot meal?

Natasha swings by the booth on her rounds, dropping off the rest of the pie tin and two mugs of coffee.

She squeezes his shoulder and Clint flashes her half a smile, the world of reality breaking back into the mind-fuck of a situation that is currently happening in his favourite booth.

Barney turns his head to watch Natasha walk away. He turns back with a lazy smirk. "She's a nice looking—"

"I'll punch you in the head if you finish that sentence," Clint growls. "I'm not that scrawny ass kid you left behind."

Barney dodges that for what it is, though Clint watches as the fork almost misses his mouth. He plays it off with an easy smile, "So, she a friend then? Surrogate sister? That's what this place is, isn't it? A home for wayward youth?"

Clint bristles, back straightening as he leans across the table. "Her name's Natasha. And she's off limits."

"Woah, little brother, no need to—"

"I remember how you used to call 'em in the circus. She's not one of your conquests. You even look at her funny and I'll—"

Barney laughs, cutting him off. "Clint, relax. I'm happy for you. I am. Really. She looks like a nice girl."

"She is."

"Then no worries." He grins and it's all tooth. "Have some pie."

Clint stills at the offer because it's so familiar. So Barney. He hasn't changed at all in the seven years they've been apart. Draining half his mug, Clint lets the coffee settle before asking, "How did you find me?"

Barney swallows and slurps down his own cup of coffee, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. "Photo in the paper, calling you a hero. Always knew my little brother would grow up and do something amazing."

"Yeah, so is that why you left me?"

"You know it wasn't like that."

"Actually, it kind of was."

There's a sigh that sounds like it's buying for time more than anything, so Clint continues. "Where've you been, Barney?"

"Truth?"

"Does it matter?"

"Depends. How sold are you on having an upstanding big brother?"

Clint's gaze drifts along the table top, stopping at the edge of the table where Barney's hand rests. He's still got the scars from where their daddy burned his cigarettes into Barney's skin for mouthing off. That stirs something else inside Clint's chest but he's too stretched to put a name to the emotion right now. He lets out his own resigned sigh. "For a long while now I figured I didn't have a big brother anymore, so the fact that you're alive says something . . . I guess."

Barney laughs, but it's dry. "Almost sounds like you missed me."

"Something like that." He shrugs. "Where were you anyway? Walked away from me one day and that was it. Gone. I didn't know what the hell happened to you."

"Yeah, well," Barney says. "Life happened. Did a stint in juvie. Mucked around with some people. It got bad. Then worse. Broke my way out of that and bummed my way North. That's when I ran into the paper with your face smack in the middle. Never thought I'd see that pretty mug of yours again. Got momma's smile on you."

Clint's lips twitch, threatening that same smile. He doesn't remember much of his mother, just a wishy-washy outline of soft sun dresses and long blonde hair. The details are fuzzy and water-coloured, but the image holds warmth that must be more than just the sun.

And if that just isn't fucking great, because there's a part of him that wants to launch across the table and hug Barney because his brother's alive and well (enough) and the only blood family Clint has left in this world. But for that same reason, Clint doesn't, because something about his brother sitting across from him makes his blood run cold.

. . .

"This is fucking weird," Tony says, folding up napkins into tiny star shaped buildings as he spies around the galley window with a look that isn't exactly suspicion, but probably something close.

Natasha is less subtle about her staring because she doesn't care if Clint knows she's watching. If he wanted privacy he would have pulled his brother into the back room, or even the house, and the fact that he didn't (just settled him down in the middle of the busy diner with people around them and a table between them) says something. So does the cold detached stare that hardens his features.

That isn't Clint. She's not sure what's up with his brother, besides being M.I.A for years, but Natasha knows from experience that relatives aren't all they're cracked up to be, especially ones that show up out of the blue with pretty smiles and shrugged off promises.

"Should we do something?" Bucky asks. "About the . . ." He gestures with his metal arm and it catches the light from the diner, sending flashes of colour against the wall.

Tony flicks his napkin city into the trash and nods. "Maybe tell Phil."

Steve leans against the window. "Yeah, agreed."

Tony's eyes flicker over to Natasha. "Red, you with us?"

She doesn't respond at first because she's still watching the table, but now it’s mostly just Barney that's got her attention. He's got more red in his hair. But the same blue, _blue_ eyes. The same half-smirk. Even some of their mannerisms are the same. Yet she feels none of Clint's warmth from him. And she's good at reading people. Rarely are her first impressions wrong. Still, this _is_ Clint's brother. Natasha shakes her head then and stares at the boys. "I'm going back to work."

"Good." Tony nudges her shoulder. "We need a spy."

"No, what you need is to grab an apron."

"Sure, sure," Tony says, snapping a picture of Barney with his phone. "Just as soon as I run some info."

Steve rolls his eyes. "Just draw the line at blood samples, okay?"

"Won't need it," he says backing down the hall. "That guy's a Barton if I ever saw one. Did you see how he inhaled his coffee?"

. . .

Clint's never seen someone eat cherry pie with such gusto.

And though Sam would be delighted, Clint's about to flag Steve down for coffee refills or maybe a sandwich because Barney hasn't stopped eating yet and he's worried that this might be the first real meal he's had in a while. He's not exactly in the brother-reforming business, but he's also been taught better than to let someone go hungry, or to let them spoil their lunch with nine pounds of dessert.

Before he can though, Barney's phone beeps and his eyes slide over the message in quick flicks. Expectant.

"Look," his brother says quickly, pocketing the phone and sliding his way out of the booth, "I gotta run now, but can I see you later? I know you have questions and I know I owe you answers. I also owe you time for the last seven years. I won't be able to make it all up to you, but can I try?"

Clint swallows around the lump in his throat because he didn't expect that watching his brother walk back out of his life, even if it's just until later, would be this hard. He also doesn't expect Barney to pull him into a hug, but that's exactly what he does, crushing him to his chest with both arms until Clint's engulfed, and it feels like memory. Like he's six years old all over again. He didn't think that was a place he'd ever want to be again. "Yeah," he mutters when they break apart, "I guess you can come by. Just don't break into the garage this time."

Barney smiles at that, something real and genuine and just . . . _friendly_. "I'll use the front door."

. . .

After the weird encounter with Barney, Clint spends the rest of the morning throwing darts at the magnetic board that hangs on the wall of his bedroom between Tony's insanely large poster of the periodic table and a framed photo of him and Natasha taken before the dance last year.

They've come a long way since then.

And even though he's walked through a hell of a lot of drama to get here, he can't help but feel like he's just walked right into some more.

There's a knock at his door and he fully expects Natasha, so when Phil enters instead, Clint pushes himself into a sitting position to make room at the end of his bed where Phil decides to sit.

"So, I hear your brother's back?"

Clint laughs despite himself because of course someone got to Phil before he could. That's just like this family.  He doesn't know whether to be grateful or irked, so he settles for accepting. "Yeah, I guess. Awesome way to spend the morning," he mutters. It comes out drier than he means.

Phil nods slowly like he's trying not to spook Clint. There's something gentle in his face when he looks up from the brown duvet that's migrated down from Natasha's room. "What do you need from me?"

"I don't even know right now."

"That's alright. Take time. Process."

Clint huffs and runs his fingers through his hair. "He's been to jail, Phil."

"That's not unheard of. A lot of kids that walk through the system end up there. You know that. Might have been you if things had worked out differently."

"Yeah . . . guess I just always figured he was dead or something, not sitting in some cell block in another state."

"It must be hard to see him now, after all that time."

Clint shrugs. "I'm not the same person I was seven years ago. Things are . . . they've changed. I've changed." He tosses another dart at the board. It sticks to the center, knocking another dart from its place. "I don't know if I want to go where this is going to go, you know? With the adoption and everything I felt like I had finally left the past where it was. That I wouldn't have to think about it anymore." Another dart pegs the center of the board. "Then he goes and shows up dragging the past with him and I can't help but think about it."

Phil pats his leg. "Sometimes things come into our lives that seem like they're more than we can handle, but sometimes they turn out to be the best things of all. If you want to, give him a chance. If you're not ready, then he'll have to understand that too."

Clint cocks an eyebrow, fighting a smile. "Have you been reading those Zen monk teachings again?"

"No, just Today's Parent. Tony keeps leaving them in my bathroom."

Clint snorts and Phil goes to stand. "You know where I am when you need me."

"I know. Thanks."

Phil nods, leaving Clint to his thoughts. He falls back down against his pillow, hands tucked under the back of his head as he stares at the ceiling. The morning sun filters between the blinds on Tony's side of the room, warming his skin and the day makes him sleepy. Soon he finds himself dreaming away the afternoon, mind full of images of buck-toothed Barney running through wheats fields with cap guns and cowboy boots while he tries to keep up.

He was always trying to keep up with Barney.

That's all he ever wanted, especially after his parents died.

Barney.

He blinks sleepily as the touch against his forehead draws him out of his dream. The warmth of the sun and the memory of wheat in the summer are replaced by a different kind of heat. This one is soft and smells of orange blossoms and Clint quickly gives over to it, sighing contentedly.

"Hey, sleepy head." When he blinks, Natasha is sprawled out on the bed next to him, head propped up on her hand, finger tracing the fine lines across his forehead. She frowns in a way that looks like worry, and it makes her green eyes sharp. "How are you?"

Clint yawns, stretching out and rolling onto his stomach before huffing out a breath. "I don’t know what I'm supposed to say that."

"Clint?"

He lets he drag her fingers through his hair for a minute, her nails pressing against his scalp. "I feel messed up. In my head. Like all the problems, all the things I had buried and let go of just came crawling out of a pit I didn't want opened again."

"That's very vivid." She strokes a line down his spine and he leans against her.

"I don't even know where to start with him. He was fifteen the last . . . it's been seven years."

"Then don't go back there," she says and he can feel her shrug. "At least not yet. Not until you're ready."

"Huh?"

"Start with this Barney. Here. Now. The one you just met again. Get to know him. The past will sort itself out when it's supposed to."

Clint lets that settle for a moment and the more he thinks about it the more it makes sense. Maybe his issue was the fact he had expectations about what all this was supposed to mean. Maybe Natasha was right and he could just deal with the past later. He wraps an arm around her waist and she makes a happy noise in the back of her throat when he squeezes her to his side. "When did you get so smart?"

"I've always been this smart."

"That is true."

"It's okay to be confused," she whispers and he can feel the words bleed through the fabric of his shirt where she's buried her head. "Now come down for dinner? You haven't eaten anything all day."

Clint looks up at her in surprise and she bites her lip around a smile. "I know you're usually the one running around like Prince Charming, but I can worry about you too. I _do_ worry about you."

He smiles. "I love you, you know that?"

"That was going to be my line."

"You can say it too."

She smiles, but instead of saying it, she just kisses him and it says even more.

. . .

Later that night, Clint's taking the garbage out when the shadows in the garage shift and true to his word, Barney doesn't break into the garage again. Instead he walks right through the open door.

"What?" he says to Clint's raised brow. "Didn't think I'd come back?"

Clint finishes tying off the last of the big black bags and then heads for the stairs. "Honestly thought I might have hallucinated this morning."

Barney follows Clint inside, down the hall, past Phil's office where Clint has to stop because Barney's paused in the hall, staring at the photo on Phil's wall. It's the one that was taken on the first day of school, Natasha and him at the center with Tony and Steve and Bruce and Thor all crowded in. All it was missing was Bucky. But hey, that would be the graduation goal.

"So, not some half-way house for dysfunctional youth then," Barney says, his head tipped in thought. "You traded in for the real deal, huh?"

"Guess so. It feels real anyway."

Not like this. This feels like a dream. One of those drug induced ones you get when the hospital meds are too strong. And Clint knows all about that. He had his wisdom teeth removed after all (he's pretty sure the video is still on Tony's phone). Clint nods his head and Barney follows him into the now empty diner. There's a few pastrami sandwiches packed away in the fridge because Clint thought on the off chance that he wasn't hallucinating, Barney might be hungry when he came back.

He's right in his assumptions, watching Barney wolf down the first.

He licks at his thumb where the horseradish mustard sticks. "Well, tell me about 'em." He swallows a chunk of bread. "Go on. Must be something to get you hooked like this."

And that's how they spend the hour, with Clint talking about the diner and Phil and Steve and Tony and even about Natasha. There's probably too much Natasha because Barney's smile turns fond when Clint gets rambling and it's like it was way back when. He'd jog by Barney's side, mouth running a mile a minute, and Barney would indulge him with stories and the kind of truths a big brother gives to his little brother.

When the hour's up and Barney refuses anymore food, Clint stands. It's not like he's asking him to leave, but tomorrow is Monday and there's still homework that needs to be done sitting at the bottom of his backpack. "Where're you staying?" he asks.

"Buddy let me borrow his car."

"You're sleeping in a car?" Clint almost stumbles on his way to the door.

"Hey, we've slept in worse."

That was true. They had slept in worse. He'd just gotten used to sheets and pillows and more recently a warm body next to his. It was a long way off the back seat of a car.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" Clint says.

"You've got that little brother thing happening."

"I'm not little."

"You'll always be little to me, Clint." He reaches out and pats Clint on the shoulder. "I'll see you."

Clint watches him go, fading into the dark, and there's a part of him that feels weird about not offering Barney a place to crash. The other part of him . . . doesn't. Because as much as there's warmth in these memories that keep bleeding into his brain, there's a darkness there too. Clint's just not ready to open that can of worms yet.

He wipes down the counter where they sat and locks up the diner, flicking the lights and checking the closed sign.

When he gets back to the house there's a muffled commotion from the kitchen which is weird because everyone has usually dispersed for the night.

As soon as he enters he's surrounded.

"We need to talk," Tony blurts out and for a moment Clint thinks about making the joke. But Natasha looks vaguely concerned, parked between Steve and Phil, with Tony pacing the length of the table. She gives him a subtle shake of her head and he pockets the humor for the moment.

Instead: "What is this, some sort of intervention?"

Phil uncrosses his arms from his spot at the table. "It's about Barney."

Tony drops the file on the table. "Your brother's a criminal."

"I know. He told me." Clint looks up at Phil. "We talked about this." He thumbs through the file, feeling somehow like he's betraying his brother even by looking. With that he snaps the manila envelope closed and pushes it back across the table. "He's out right now though, probably on parole. Where'd you get that information anyway?"

Tony flops down in a seat. "I have ways."

"You know breaking into secure databases is against the law, too."

"Well, not exactly the same league as what you—"

Phil interjects. "Clint, I think what Tony is trying to say is—"

"He shouldn't come around here like this. Not until we know more about him."

Clint takes a deep breath because this isn't one of those conversations he wants to end in a fight, but he can quickly feel Tony overstepping his bounds and the fact that they've all kind of ambushed him makes him a little angry. Maybe Natasha wasn't telling him to be silent as much as she was telling him to bail. They should work on their signals. "He's my brother," is all Clint responds with.

Tony raises his brows pointedly. "Who you haven't seen in seven years!"

"So?"

"You don't know anything about him. He's . . . did you look at the file? He could be dangerous."

Clint snorts.

"This isn't a joke."

"I'm not saying that, I'm just . . . I had a juvenile record when I came here, too. You knew nothing about me. Phil helped me get it expunged, I cleaned up my act and here we are."

"That's different."

"Why?"

"Because your charges were nothing like his." Tony's voice is hard and accusing.

"Tony," Phil warns.

"Barney's not a bad guy," Clint says. "Just done not so nice things."

"You don't know that. Not yet."

"I'm the only family he's has."

"Yeah, well you're our brother, too. Or did that shit about the adoption mean nothing to you?" Tony stands then, so abruptly the chair goes sliding back against the floor and into the cupboards.

He whisks from the kitchen, knocking against Clint's shoulder in his haste, before anything can stop him.

Clint just rolls his eyes because if Tony was anything, it was dramatic.

Phil clears his throat, pulling at the tie around his neck. "I know we talked about it this afternoon, but I do think Tony has a point. Until further notice I'd like all your visits with Barney to be at the diner and to be supervised."

Clint throws his hands up. "Phil? C'mon—"

"Please don't make me pull the living-under-my-house-my-rules thing, Clint. You know me better than that and I know you. I know you wouldn't want to put the other people in this house at risk?"

Clint's eyes immediately glance over at Natasha who's been unusually quiet. Of course he'd never put her in danger. _Jesus._ His hands slide through his hair. "Yeah, fine. That's . . . I'll make sure you're around or whatever."

"Thank-you. Now, this is what was supposed to happen tonight. Tony's just obviously angry about something," Phil says, his eyes betraying his worry.

Clint huffs sarcastically, rolling out his shoulder. "Oh really? I hadn't noticed."

Steve looks up at Clint and though he hasn't said much, there's something like hurt there too and when he leaves the kitchen without a word to any of them Clint thinks he might hurl something across the kitchen. If Tony and Steve want to be pissed about something that he has no control over then whatever. He didn't ask Barney to come here. He didn't . . . why was everyone getting so defensive?

"I think maybe we should all just go to bed," Phil says. "It's been a long day."

Clint's about to respond with something that might be less than kind, because he's pissed now. He's the one who's had a hell of a day and everyone is barking down his throat about things that are out of his control. First Tony and then Steve with his passive-aggressive silence, and if Phil had a problem with it why didn't he talk to Clint about it sooner?

He turns away from Phil instead, biting his lip, because he's not that cocky ass kid anymore who throws his anger around. He's better then that.

Natasha must sense his need to just get away from it all because she stands suddenly and tugs on his arm, pulling him towards the stairs.

For the first time in a long time Clint is glad he spends most nights in Natasha's room. It means he doesn't have to deal with Tony tonight, leaving them both time to cool off after . . . _well_ , whatever that was. And Steve . . . _ugh_ , Clint wants to punch something.

When they reach her room she lets him stare moodily out the window while she changes, no questions asked. Then she climbs into bed while he sheds his clothes and washes his face. He putters in the bathroom longer than necessary, mainly just to work out some of the tension that's built up over the last several hours.

It's a lost cause and eventually the need for sleep outweighs his need to brood and Clint paces across the floor.

He drops to the edge of the bed in a heap, head nestled in his hands.

Natasha's hand against his shoulder pulls him down and he tucks one arm around her.

"Just forget about everything for a little while." She strokes her hand through his hair and he leans into her touch, seeking that grounding force he finds with her. Today's been the kind of day that leaves you so wrung out you're almost too exhausted to sleep.

Clint's never had so much on his mind before. "I don't get it," he says. "The hell is wrong with everyone?"

"They're just confused," Natasha tells him.

"Well, welcome to the club."

"They're not used to having to share you with someone else."

"They—what?" Clint's shock must be evident because she shrugs in response, her gentle smile trimming off at the edges with her confession.

"I feel like I haven't seen you at all today."

He pauses and with everything that's happened, she right. He's barely said more than a handful of words to her today. To any of them really. He's been so consumed with Barney. He lets out a sigh. "I know what you mean."

"Stay here with me."

"Hmm?" he says, brows furrowed in confusion as he tips his head to look at her.

"Wherever your thoughts are going. Don't. Just stay here with me."

Considering everything that's happened today, Clint thinks this is asking a lot. But as with most things, Natasha makes it easier.

It starts slow, just her, pressing little open mouthed kisses to the side of his face, breath tickling his ear.

The kisses draw closer to his mouth, threatening his lips and after a while Clint doesn't want to wait any more and pulls her flush against him, her legs falling on either side of his, hands propped against his chest as he gives her access to his mouth.

She takes it greedily, her tongue diving between his lips to taste and tease. She licks at the inside of his mouth before nipping at his bottom lip.

Her hands interlace with his as she kisses him, involuntarily grinding down against his hips as she adjusts her weight against his lap.

His breath stutters against her lips and she pulls out a shy smile as he stiffens against her hip. "Sorry," she says, nipping at his chin with tiny, fluttering kisses.

"Mmm, Tash, what're doing?" he groans as she drags her lips down the column of his throat, tongue flicking out over his Adams apple and across the juncture at the base of his neck.

"Distracting you. Is it working?"

"Mmm, too well I think."

She reaches between their bodies, hand sliding down the top of his hip, making him twitch against her stomach. "Do you want me to stop?"

"Hell no."

She smiles sweet, letting him cup her cheek, then pushes up his shirt to run her tongue across his abdomen, muscles tight from hours spent at the gym with Steve and being Natasha's target practice. The tip of her tongue swipes around his navel and he shudders against her, letting out a groan that curls his lips.

"Shhh," she laughs, crawling back up him to nip at his smile. "No noise. Or I'll stop."

She says it like it's a game, teasing and taunting, but the reality is that Steve's probably in his room below them and Phil and Tony are somewhere else in the house and Clint would prefer they didn't know exactly what was going on up here.

Her rules are a warning as much as they are for fun.

Satisfied with his silence, she palms his boxers again, feeling his length and running it between the groove of her thumb and forefinger.

She tightens to a squeeze, sending shocks up the base of his spine that rock his hips off the mattress and into her palm.

"Tasha," he groans. It's breathless and barely there, barely loud enough to be a word, but she grins against the side of his face and jerks her arm faster, strokes rough against the fabric, pulling at his concentration.

When her hands dip into the seam of his boxers, skin grazing skin, white lightning shoots through him, curling his toes and forcing his length into the warm grip of her hand.

It's utter perfection, being worked like this by her, and as the darkness eats up his heavy breaths and Natasha's whispers of encouragement, Clint's hips fall out of rhythm, the coil of lightning twisting tighter at the base of his spine.

"Please," he mutters, though he's not sure what he's asking for, but then her lips are on him, soft and wet, before enveloping the head of his cock and suddenly the lightning bursts, ricocheting in hundreds of directions. It takes every ounce of self-preservation for him not to cry out in the darkness, not to draw attention to them.

He starts to spill into her mouth, and his own mouth falls open as he pushes up on his elbows, watching her work between his legs to suck him dry. She bats her eyes at him and a pleasant shudder sends him sprawling onto his back, cock twitching against her tongue so hard the space behind his eyes turns white. She milks him with the walls of her mouth, cheeks pulling tight as he fights not to thrust. For minutes and moments it's sheer, tortuous bliss. And in the space where he catches his breath, letting his thoughts settle and the blood reconvene in other, more important parts of his body, a wake of real exhaustion rips through him, leaving his limbs heavy and sated, a dopey smile on his lips.

It's torture to pull his eyes open, but he stirs when she pulls up beside him, dragging the covers with her. He moves to roll over, to reciprocate the mind-blowing orgasm she's just left him with, but her hands stay his movements and she settles into the crook of his arm, nose nuzzling his shirt affectionately. "Shhh, sleep," she tells him, running a finger between his eyes and over his nose to trace his lips.

The gentle brush of her finger pulls him back under.

"Dirty trick," he mumbles into her hair.

The last thing he feels before sleep takes him is the gentle quake of her laugh.

When morning comes Natasha's sprawled across him like an octopus and as much as Clint thinks this is a good way to spend the day, they have school.

He manages to extricate himself without sending them both to the floor, which he counts as a win, before padding across the room and into the bathroom to turn on the shower. He cranks it to hot, knowing it'll take a few minutes to warm up.

He ruffles his hair in the mirror, smoothing down the bedhead, before padding back across the room.

"Natasha," he says, dragging the covers away where she's buried in his absence. She groans and stretches in a way that reminds him of a cat. He runs his hands up her spine and over her shoulders, to which she hums appreciatively. "I started the shower for you."

He bends to kiss the back of her neck. "Don't let it drain all the hot water."

She makes a muffled noise of agreement and Clint takes that as his queue to leave. He zips down the stairs, hoping to beat Steve to the shower, running smack into Tony as he does.

"Oh, hey, sorry," Tony mumbles, edging out of the way, hair still wet from the shower he's just finished.

"S'okay," Clint mutters doing his best to avoid making direct eye contact. That becomes slightly more difficult as he grabs his toothbrush and Tony hovers in the corner staring at Clint through the mirror.

Clint knocks the water off his toothbrush, hitting it against the side of the sink. He looks up at Tony, meeting his eyes, and waits.

"I didn't mean to yell at you last night . . . about your brother. That's not why I looked that stuff up. I wasn't calling you out or anything."

Clint sighs. He really didn't want to do this right now, first thing, but apparently he wasn't going to be allowed to shower until they did and if he didn't hurry Natasha was going to drain their hot water tank. "Then why? What does it matter anyway?"

"It matters because you should know."

"Know what?"

"What you're getting into. I just wanted you to know, because I know what you've been through. What we've all been through to get where we are. It's a good place, isn't it?"

Clint turns around to face him, leaning against the counter. "You didn't put up this kind of fight when I started dating Natasha."

"That was different."

"How? Crazy Russian uncle with ties to a drug ring and the mafia. There were traumatic childhood triggers all over that."

"Yeah, well, I suppose it was the same with Steve and Bucky."

"Exactly, you never fussed about either of them."

"Well, Natasha wasn't trying to take you away."

" _Take me_ —"

"Face it, Clint. Your brother didn't come back to wish you well. He came back to get you."

"Tony . . ."

"Why else would he be here?"

Clint doesn't have an answer to that yet. "That doesn't mean anything," he mutters.

"Maybe. I just know if someone from my past showed up I'd be pretty willing to look past a lot of their shit to have them back in my life. Family does that to you. Blood's thick, even when it's toxic. But whatever, I'm sorry about what I said. Probably could have handled it better."

"Yeah, can I just jump on the sorry train too?" Steve says, filling up the doorway suddenly. He's got a crooked kind of look on his face, almost like he's in pain. "I didn't mean to be like that last night. All this talk of your brother being back just . . . well, I guess he is your real brother so I get it if—"

"Hey," Clint says. "You guys know that doesn't change anything right? Yeah, Barney's my blood. But you guys are my brothers too. We've been through too much shit to change that now."

Steve scraps at the back of his head. "Guess that was a stupid thought, huh?"

"Wouldn't have been your first," Tony says sarcastically and with that things settle. The weight between them dissolves as they snicker at each other and when Natasha emerges from the attic, smelling like shampoo, Clint looks distraught, mutters, "Aw, hot water, no," and they all burst into another fit of laughter.

"Thank god," Phil says as he passes them at the top of the stairs, clutching their ribs. "Breakfast is in twenty. Clint go shower, you look like Tarzan."

That sets them off again and Clint decides that maybe everything doesn't have to change all at once.

. . .

Freshly showered and dressed, Clint slips into the diner to retrieve his watch before the rest of the staff start arriving and before Phil starts bellowing that he's late for breakfast. He peaks into the kitchen. Sam's not here yet, but he flicks on the lights anyway because Peggy'll be walking through the door any minute.

The light from the kitchen is enough to illuminate the counter where he left his watch last night while he was talking with Barney. He snags it and snaps it fastens it to his wrist. As he does, the booth in the corner squeaks, like someone's sliding out of it and he whips around, glaring into the darkness.

With a gulp, he lets the breath fall from his lungs. "What the hell Barney? How'd did you even get in here?"

Barney waves him off. "You just said not to break in through the garage anymore."

"Jesus, well I didn't mean . . ." _Ugh, god, Phil's going to kill him._ Clint leans against the counter and Barney hops up next to him. Clint swallows his next breath. "Hey look, you can't just be showing up like this. The guys think . . . it's been decided that you being here . . . with me," Clint tumbles through the words, "look man, it's gotta be supervised."

Barney balks at that. "You sure this isn’t some fancy system jail? They got you working, tell you who you can see, when you can see 'em."

"It's not like that," Clint defends. "This is a family. It's not just about me. There are . . . rules."

"Yeah. Alright," he concedes. "So, where you going all slicked up nice?"

Clint looks down at his faded jeans (not exactly what he'd call nice), but shrugs. "To school."

"Huh. So that's what you do now, too?"

"Yeah," Clint says. "It's kind of the law."

Barney laughs.

"What?"

"You're eighteen, Clint. Laws like that don't apply to you anymore. Unless you're doing it cause daddy Phil told you to."

"So what if I am?" Was it so wrong to want to earn that pride Phil had in him?

"Guess I just didn't peg you for growing up into this kind of person."

"And what kind is that?"

"The kind that needs validation from other people. The kind that can't make decisions for himself."

"This _is_ my decision. I want to do something with my life. Something other than tear down carnival games."

"You never used to have a problem with that life."

"Yeah, well, I was ten. I've changed since then."

"Obviously, between this Phil guy and that girl—"

"Hey!" Clint pulls away from the counter to look at Barney head on. "You know nothing about Natasha, so don't even bring her into this."

"I don't need to know her. She's got you whipped like a little puppy dog, trailing her around with your mouth open. You know, there's easier ways to get some. Easier girls. Less strings attached, too."

Clint doesn't remember launching himself at the counter, or swinging, but the next thing he knows Barney's on the floor clutching his jaw, sporting a purple lip, blood dribbling down over his chin. He chokes on a laugh. "Now there's the Clint I remember. You always were scrappy."

Clint stands slowly, fist clenched into a ball by his side. "You fucking with me, Barney?"

"'Course I am. Just wanted to see if you had that same spunk in you.  I lost you for a long time, little brother, wanted to make sure you didn't lose yourself."

"You're such an asshole."

Barney snickers. "You used to say that then."

Clint offers him an arm to pull him up off the floor, eyes still pinched. "Yeah, well I mean it more now."

"I'll let myself out."

Clint watches him cross the diner, uneasy in the easy familiarity Barney already has with the place. But still . . . "Hey, Barn?"

"Yeah?"

"You coming back?"

"Yeah, I'll be back when you and all the kiddies are done finger painting. Apparently there's an entire selection of pie I gotta try."

With that he's gone and Clint's hand twitches and he's not entirely sure he wants to see his brother again but he's not entirely sure he doesn't.

. . .

"Oh! What happened?" is the first thing he hears when he goes back into the house and he immediately looks down at his hand, knuckles painted red. "Clint?"

He spins on his heel and whips up the stairs, brushing by Natasha on her way down. He takes them three at a time, up towards the bathroom.

With the door shut behind him, he lets his head fall back against the wood. When the sting in his knuckles turns to a throb, he stuffs them under the cold water and hisses at the bite against his flesh.

A minute later there's a knock and Natasha slips inside.

"What happened?" she asks again, pulling a towel of the rack to cup his hand in her hers. When it's dry she has him sit beside the sink while she uncaps the rubbing alcohol, taking over the menial first-aid. "This is going to hurt."

He holds his arm over the sink and hisses when the alcohol makes contact, then grunts out: "Punched an idiot."

"Tony?" Natasha ventures.

"My brother."

Her eyes shoot up and it's something unreadable; slowly she looks away, focusing back on his hand. "Why?" she asks.

"He's got a big mouth and bigger opinions on people. I guess I didn't want to hear anymore."

"I see."

"What?"

"You missed him."

"I—" Clint stutters. "Yeah, I guess I did. Sometimes I'm not sure why." There's a lot of history there. A lot of it muddied by age and lies.

"Because he's your brother and he's hurting. Exactly the kind of person you can't help yourself from loving."

Clint huffs a laugh. "You were a different story."

Natasha dabs some cream across his knuckles before threading her arms around his neck.

Clint lets his fingers dance down her spine; he rests his forehead against hers and for the moment, Barney's completely forgotten.

For the moment it's just the two of them.

And Clint knows it's enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! Hope you're enjoying yourself so far.
> 
> Next up: The one where football ends bad, Steve's got problems with backless gowns, Bucky eats his feelings, Clint's still got brother issues and it's almost Natasha's birthday, so . . . presents?


	4. Take These Broken Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where football ends badly, Steve's got problems with backless gowns, Bucky eats his feelings, Clint's still got brother issues and it's almost Natasha's birthday, so . . . presents?

The last September of their high school career ends (naturally) with more drama than Clint would have liked, so he's not at all unhappy when the crazy world of high school sports creeps up on them, taking center stage for a while. Football's never really been his thing. In fact, mainstream sports aren't exactly where he puts his focus, but the madness that ensues at least provides a nice distraction from things like long lost brothers that turn up out of the blue.

By October football season is in full swing and the crowds are out with earnest as Steve takes the field for his last year (looking especially tight in his uniform according to the gaggle of senior girls who have refused to acknowledge the very obvious Bucky attached to Steve before, during, and after most classes). It's a little bit ridiculous, Clint thinks, how invested everyone else is in this part of Steve's life. As expected, there's talk of scholarships and scouts and even photos in the front page of the paper. How many times can one guy really have his photo on the front page? Steve doesn't even smile for them anymore.

Plus the betting is just getting unreal. If Steve's odds end up any more stacked Clint might just find a way to bet and get Steve to throw the game. Then he'd be set for to pay for his college tuition out of pocket and probably have enough for a used car.

It's a tempting thought for a while. Then it just gets annoying.

By the third game their team is undefeated and they have to have Fury and Ms. Hill save them seats because the crowds are so bad. They even make students start purchasing tickets which is just wrong as far as Clint's concerned, especially when your brother is star quarterback.

"Over there!" Natasha says. She's probably actually shouting as she points to the pocket of empty seats between Fury and Phil, but the din of the crowd already pitches her voice to sound like it's coming from across the field and not from right beside him.

He just squeezes her hand and lets her lead him through the people, careful to step in her path to avoid getting jostled and separated.

They climb over Phil who's already got the camera rolling, an intense kind of focus on his face. Sam wags the banner he's holding in front of the lens just to watch the wrinkles on Phil's forehead deepen.

The game starts with a pass that has the crowd buzzing with anticipation and Clint has to take away Tony's inflatables to stop him and Bucky from whacking the kids in front of them who keep standing up.

When Thor bellows, "I can't see!" at the top of his lungs they seem to get the message and sink down in their seats, utterly quiet. Utterly terrified. Darcy kicks at the back of their seats with her belted leather boots for dramatic effect, because Darcy is anything but subtle. Jane groans and drops her face into her hands as Ms. Hill shoots them a questioning gaze. Meanwhile Natasha stealthily sneaks Darcy a thumbs-up which only seems to incite her more.

"I always thought the drama department was a little scary," Natasha mutters next to his ear as Thor looms forward to glare some more when the kids go from excited to annoyingly rowdy again.

Clint snickers. "Yeah, now imagine that, with a cape. You never saw Thor in the freshman play."

"Ooh, I hope there are pictures somewhere."

"Pretty sure Tony has some of it recorded and saved on his laptop. Mind you, this was before Thor's voice dropped, so that in itself was a little scary."

"You're joking."

"I was just happy it wasn't a musical."

Natasha's laughter ripples through him. Clint's feeling a little bit nostalgic as she snuggles up against his arm, buried in that same sweater he leant her so many football games ago, when they were new and confused and when he still thought Bucky was his competition.

It's a nice feeling, especially after the last couple of weeks, with Barney showing up and just—

The tackle comes out of nowhere, calling Clint's attention because of the muted gasp that shifts through the crowd, and he turns in time to see Steve go down hard. It's a teeth rattling hit. The kind you can feel inside your own bones. Beside him Bucky stiffens and Natasha lifts her head from its place on his shoulder, startlingly alert.

After a breath of pause, which only lasts a few seconds, there's an immediate scramble after the ball and a flurry of white helmets as the game continues, dragging the play away from where Steve went down.

When the bodies disperse and Steve doesn't get up, it's clear something's wrong.

Clint stands, only moments after Phil, and whispers, "Shit."

Bucky is the first one off the bleachers, though, somehow stepping between seats without crushing any fingers, before vaulting himself over the railing and onto the field. Whistles blow and the coaches rush onto the field.

Near them Fury starts barking orders for everyone to "Sit the hell down!" and Ms. Hill snaps the word "Detention," so many times Clint's not sure why people are still moving. There's something about pain that just seems to attract people.

It takes them wrestling a crowd of teachers amassed by Fury to finally reach the huddle that's formed around Steve.

Bucky is crouched up by his head, Steve's helmet still firmly in place. Phil drops to his knees and his hands hover, shaking a bit, like he's not sure what to touch first—if he should touch him? Clint watches the war to offer comfort without causing more pain wage inside Phil as Steve's breath hisses out between his teeth.

"Can't . . ." he hisses before sucking in a hard breath through his nose. "My arm. I can't—"

Steve's eyes squeeze shut and Clint's stomach lurches painfully up near his throat. He feels a jostle by his shoulder and Tony sneaks by, camera rolling through it all.

"Are you seriously filming this?"

Tony shrugs. "What? They'll want it when they make a movie out of his football career."

Clint balks at him and Natasha makes a swipe that lands a swat to Tony's bicep. He cringes dramatically and stammers " _Ow_ , Red! You know, I did at least call 9-1-1 _before_ I started filming."

"Well, aren't you special," Natasha mutters.

But Clint can already hear the scream of the sirens in the distance. The ambulance turns up a few minutes later.

**. . .**

When the truck unpacks, and the majority of the crowd is ushered off the field, it's the same blonde paramedic Clint and Steve met when the whole Ivan mess went down that does the assessment.

"Hey, hotshot, thought you were going to go straight," she jokes, flicking a penlight in Steve's eyes.

Steve chokes on a laugh that becomes a grunt of pain. With the help of her partner, a bulky guy with a shock of red hair and a pair of headphones strung around his neck, Steve is rolled onto a spinal board and lifted onto a gurney.  Another grunt escapes as the gurney is jostled into the back of the ambulance.

The blonde paramedic turns to Phil and pats his shoulder. "Dad, I'm assuming?"

Phil manages to nod.

"Well, breathe. We're going to take good care of your son. You're not gunna be any help to him if you pass out though."

"Is he—"

"I'm not the doctor, so I don't diagnose. But unofficially it's probably his collar bone," she says to Phil. "We'll meet you at the hospital. We've radioed ahead; he'll be in x-ray by the time you get there. Oh, and it's best not to let a posse follow. It's going to be a while before he's allowed any visitors besides family."

Phil looks around then suddenly at the motley group of them, eyes wide. "We are his family," he says.

The paramedic shrugs and climbs into the back of the ambulance. "See you soon then."

**. . .**

Clint absolutely hates hospitals more than anything in the world, especially after having spent several terrible weeks there with Natasha before having to say goodbye to her for what he thought would be the last time. They're full of horrible memories and everything smells like sanitized death.

So the first thing Clint does is offer to go back to the diner to put together a bag  for Steve since the x-ray techs will be cutting him out of his football gear.

Bucky and Tony pile into Lola with Phil and Natasha follows him to the van.

Her hand finds its way to his knee as he drives, rubbing gentle circles into his skin and for a moment they just sit in the garage when they get back to the diner, Clint breathing hard through his nose.

It's a testament to how well she knows him that Natasha just sits quietly and lets him do it.

"I hate being there," he says finally.

"I know. But Steve needs you." She leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek, lingering long enough that the sweet smell of her shampoo wafts off her hair, calming the anxiety bubbling in his stomach. "At least this time no one's going anywhere but home."

"Yeah," Clint sighs. Then he takes the keys from the ignition, finds an empty duffle bag, and with Natasha's help, packs the essentials so Steve can get out of the hospital without wearing some off-white frock.

The drive to the hospital is silent except for the buzz coming out of the radio.

They pull up into a visitor's parking lot just outside the emergency department. Natasha takes his hand before they enter and her squeeze is enough to ground him. _It's different this time_ he reminds himself. _This isn't about you._

Because even when it was about Natasha it was kind of about him too.

But this, this is Steve. And Steve came to see Natasha. He did it for her. And he did it for Clint too. So after heckling some very persistent nurses about family relations, Clint pushes into the hospital room, alone, bag slung over his shoulder, quirking his lips when Steve's glassy eyes shift his way. He's done up in a frumpy white gown with the expected wires and tubes threaded along his forearms, connecting him to heart monitors and IV pumps. There's a complicated looking sling holding his left arm against his chest.

"Hey." Steve brightens as Clint walks over. "Thought you might not make it up."

"And miss all this," Clint gestures around. "As if."

"You didn't have to, Clint. I get it."

"I know you do." The fact that he's here though speaks volumes and Steve gets that so he smiles and lets it go. "But who else is going to deliver you your perfectly ironed briefs?"

"Ah, so now you know my secret."

"Trust me, dude. That's not even the worst one."

Steve chuckles. "Where's Phil?" he asks, his voice croaking a bit on the last syllable and Clint swipes the styrofoam cup off the bedside table and offers it up, positioning the straw near Steve's lips.

"Talking to coach last I saw. Looked kind of heated, but let's be real, this is the most excitement Happy's seen in a long time." Steve empties the cup and Clint returns it to the table. "I'm really sorry, man," he says, dropping the duffle bag on the floor and slouching down in the chair next to Steve's bed. It's just as uncomfortable as he remembers from the weeks spent by Natasha's beside. "I know they were out scouting you today."

Steve goes to shrug, but reconsiders, frowning down at his arm. "Honestly, I'm not even that upset about it. I don't know if I wanted a sports scholarship."

"But it's a _free_ ride, man. That's what everyone wants, isn't it?"

"But then I have to play football for them. That'll be my life." Steve sighs. "I don't even like it that much." He flexes his hand, fingers dancing against his palm. "You know, I thought it was my wrist at first. When I got hit the pain just kind of shot everywhere and I couldn't move anything. And I was so pissed then—"

"At the guy?"

"No, at myself."

"Why?"

"Cause I play this stupid sport because other people want me to. Cause it makes other people happy." Another heavy sigh. "What if it had been my hand?" His brows furrow. "And I couldn't draw anymore?" He looks back up at Clint, eyes tired and angry and impossibly sad. "They want me to play in the playoffs. It's eight weeks from now. I'll barely be healed and coach wants me to throw."

Clint leans in until he's really sure Steve's listening. "You don't have to do anything. If you don't want to play, don't. Screw 'em. If you want to draw, then that's what you do. The team will function without you, maybe not as well, but it's not up to you."

"I don't want to play anymore. I don't think I ever did this year." He glowers something broken at his hospital gown. "Phil's gunna be so disappointed."

"Nah, man, he comes to the games because you play in them. Remember when you made the team? He didn't even know what a first down was. Now he's running stats because you're important to him."

"He wanted me to get a scholarship."

"He also wants you to be happy. So if football isn't it, he's not gunna hold it against you. Plus you 've got at least six weeks before you have to tell anyone anything." Clint jumps out of his chair. "So you ready to bust out of here yet? Cause let's face it, the gown doesn't suit you as well as it did Natasha."

Steve sobers and laughs. "Where is she anyway?"

"Took Bucky to the cafeteria. He was pacing your hall with that tight, _I smell something terrible_ look on his face. You know, the one that makes him look a little murderous?" Clint removes a stack of clothes from the bag on the floor. "Tash thought food might do him good."

"She's probably right."

Clint laughs. "Should I text Sam and tell him to start some emergency comfort pie baking?"

Steve's lips twitch as he grabs the clothes Clint brought him with his free hand. "Grab the curtain for me, will you? I've already had enough nurses stare at my butt today."

"That'll probably be front page tomorrow. Or the footage of the accident. You know Tony was filming?"

"I was kind of spacing out a lot when I was on the ground, so no."

"Eh, well, if it happens at least you'll get a good payday out of it. If there's one thing that Tony knows how to do it's strike a deal."

"I know," Steve groans. "He managed to dismantle the heart monitor and put it back together in the time it took security to get here. Talked his way out of that by fixing their radios so there's no more static."

"Where is he now?"

"Went to call Pym. Apparently there's a market for health care equipment which is currently being underrepresented. He wants it to be STARK enterprises' first real deal."

Clint snickers. "That's a mouthful."

"It's Tony."

"Touché," Clint says as he draws the curtain around Steve. "And I'll do up buttons and zippers or whatever, but I draw the line at putting your underwear on for you. For that I _will_ go get Bucky."

**. . .**

By the time they get home from the hospital it's almost seven o'clock and the first thing Steve does is stumble upstairs and into bed. It says a lot because even when he's dead beat Steve usually still manages to eat something. A lot of something.

Phil spends the next twenty minutes assembling all unneeded pillows against Steve for support and when he glances in on his room, Clint's pretty sure Steve might suffocate under them all before morning.

He lets Phil fuss though because he knows from experience this will be the only thing that calms his nerves. If not he'll start tidying with unparalleled commitment and the last thing Clint wants right now is to be dragged into some early version of spring cleaning.

They're all pulled on duty to help finish up the night at the diner, however. It's been running on bare bones since the afternoon, with Sam flipping out orders at an alarming rate and Peggy multi-tasking the shit out of things as usual. It looks like most of the town fed through here after Steve was taken off the field, either looking for news or just for some comfort food.

Clint suspects some of them are out a fair bit of money seeing as SHIELD lost its first game of the season.

 Natasha grabs an apron from the rack beside the kitchen and starts working her smiles with the regulars, getting them coffee refills and extra whip cream for their half-eaten pie, sending them on their way out the door, happier despite the fact they've been ushered out faster than usual.

Clint starts hauling garbage out since Tony's been assigned bus-boy by Sam, figuring it'll take him at least half an hour since it's piled up all day without a runner to chuck it to the curb.

The sun's just starting to set, painting the edges of the evergreens lime green in the distance as Clint stands at the edge of the street, stretching the kinks from his shoulders. It's been a hell of a day.

He spins on the sole of his shoe, twisting in the gravel to head back in through the garage and his pulse shoots up through his throat. "Jesus, Barn! What the hell?" he stammers, side stepping and letting his arms drop back down. "Scared the shit out of me. What's wrong with you, huh? Sneaking up in the dark."

"S'not dark yet," Barney laughs, tucking his hands into his pockets. He falls in line beside Clint as they head back towards the garage.

Clint lets out a breath that's part relief, part getting his heart back into a regular rhythm as he ducks inside to grab the recycling. "What're you doing here anyway?" he asks, hauling another bag of garbage over his shoulder and tucking the blue box against his hip.  He heads back out to the street. "You know you're not just supposed to show up like this. Our time's supposed to be supervised. Remember?"

"I know," Barney says, stepping longer to keep pace. "I tried to come around to talk to Phil earlier, but no one's been around today." He shrugs. "So what's up? Someone die or something? Whole goddamn town's been in a panic today."

"Steve got hurt at the football game."

"Oh yeah?"

"Took a bad hit. Broke his collar bone."

Barney huffs and it sounds more like he's covering up a laugh than anything. "Well, no one said football was for punks."

Clint staggers in the gravel, losing his grip on the blue box and it clatters by his feet, tipping and scattering cardboard against the ground. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Come on dude, you live with the guy." Barney shrugs his hands out of his pockets. "You can't tell me you haven't noticed he's a fag?"

Clint's fingers curl and his voice is dark when he responds. "Don't talk about him like that."

"Like what? It's the truth. Saw him macking that guy with metal arm the other day. Can't believe they let you all live here together. I know the system's messed, but isn't there rules about that kind of thing?"

"About being gay?" Clint asks, too appalled to do anything but stare.

"It really doesn't bother you?"

"Steve's my brother."

Barney looks out to the street, whistling low. "Wow, they've really got you whipped, haven't they?"

Clint rubs the back of his head, feeling the pinch of irritation start at the tops of his spine and spread across his shoulders. "I think you should take off for a while."

"What?" Barney whips around to look at him. "Why?"

"Look, I just have a lot to deal with here right now. I can't deal with your ass-backward discrimination on top of it." He gives his head a firm shake. "Not right now."

"Clint—"

"Seriously, Barn. Just," he waves his hand as he turns, "get out of here, okay?"

He starts walking before he can regret his decision.

Clint doesn't bother with the rest of the garbage because he's too flustered right now. Instead he piles it next to the van for the morning and pads the code into the lock to close the garage door. He avoids looking back out to the street. Tries to avoid feeling guilty for being mad at Barney. He insulted Steve. He insulted his brother. Adopted or not, that still meant something. Steve had been there when Barney hadn't been. So he tries not to feel bad as the door rattles against the concrete floor. He does though. He feels like shit because he knows Barney was the only one there when his parents had died. When no one wanted them.

Frustrated, Clint slams his hand down on the light switch and kicks his shoes off at the door, not caring that they land half-way across the room and Phil will probably harp on him for it later. He doesn't care about later. Not when he doesn't know how to deal with right now. How is he supposed to manage these two different worlds that don't seem to want to mesh, no matter how many times Barney drops by?

Back inside the diner, the booths are almost empty and he spies the top of Natasha's head in one, probably swiping a thirty second break while the customers finish up the last of their meals for the night.

"You need to stop eating," he hears her say as he approaches.

"Can't," comes a grunt.

Clint piles into the booth across from Natasha. Bucky is parked beside her, swallowing his weight in pastrami from the looks of it.

She takes one long look at him and tips her head, "Where's Barney? Saw him come up through the window?"

Clint huffs and waves his hand out the window, towards Barney's retreating form, fading into the first streams of darkness at the end of the laneway.

"What did he say this time?"

Clint glances at Bucky and decides not to elaborate at this exact moment for obvious reasons. The last thing he needed was to give people more ammunition. It was already painfully obvious that his brother didn’t exactly mesh with his family, no need to foster that divide. He shrugs, picking up the loose straw on the table and folding it in half. "Stupid shit. As usual."

Natasha's eyes narrow for a fraction of a second, but she doesn't push, just offers her own shrug.

Clint sighs. "I used to look up to him. I used to want to _be_ him."

"That's stupid," Bucky says and he raises a dark brow like he knows exactly what Clint's hiding. Like he knows exactly the kind of person Barney can be.

"Shut up and eat your food," Natasha grumbles at him, shoving his plate against his chest and Bucky mutters something about her being a scary Russian housewife.

Natasha turns back to Clint. "You didn't know any better. You were young."

"Yeah, well . . ." Barney's still his brother, the kid who took care of him when the rest of the world shut them out. Who made sure Clint didn't starve or freeze or die under some freeway bridge. Clint survived because other people had looked out for him, whether he recognized it all or not. But there was never anyone there to pick Barney up.

No one to help steer him off the wrong path.

All Barney really had in this world was Clint, so he couldn't abandon him now. Not like he just had. He sure did want to sock him in the face, though. Brothers could still do that, Clint decides. Barney used to rag on him all the time when they were younger and it didn't change how he felt about him. Right? Even after all this time there was a part of Clint that yearned to have Barney here. That delighted in the sound of his voice and that stupid half-smirk.

"Where are you going?" Natasha says suddenly and it startles Clint out of his thoughts. Bucky nudges her out of the booth so he can stand.

"Another sandwich," he mutters, snatching up his plate.

"We're going to have to start charging him soon," Clint jokes. Then: "Is he okay?"

Natasha flops back down. "No. I don't know. He's obviously stressed about Steve."

Clint nods. "I get it. I've been there."

Natasha's features tighten, but only slightly as she acknowledges that.

"Steve's alright though," Clint continues. "Get a good night's sleep under his belt and he'll be down here tomorrow, good as new . . . Well, once Phil stops fawning over him."

Natasha shrugs. "Yeah . . . guess you just forget, you know. No matter how big you are, you're still breakable. Still just as vulnerable."

Clint shakes his head because he doesn't like where that train of thought leads. For either of them. "Let's talk about something else."

"What?"

"What do you want to do next month?"

Her brow lifts at the corner. "For what?"

"Your birthday."

That startles a surprised laugh out of her. Like after everything the concept is so foreign it seems ridiculous. "It's not a big deal, Clint. We don't have to make it into a thing." She reaches across the table to tug on his hand. "Come on; let's get this place cleared out so we can go to bed. I'm beat and I'm pretty sure you are too."

Later that evening, when they're curled up beside each other in the middle of Natasha's bed, her head resting against his chest, her toes jammed against his legs for warmth, Clint tries again. "You only turn eighteen once," he says, fingers tracing patterns against the back of her hand.

She rolls her eyes. It's so obvious Clint can pick out the gesture in the dark, even as she says, "You only turn _every age_ once, Clint."

"I know, but eighteen's special."

She leans closer, her head pressed against his shoulder. "Why? We didn't make a big deal out of yours or Tony's or Steve's. Why mine?"

He tucks his arm around her, hauling her against him so he can feel the weight of her. The gentle rise and fall of her chest. These are the constants that make sense to him now. He lets out a breath. "Because it's the first real birthday I get to spend with you. And you with me. Last year we weren't . . . we weren't like this. Not yet. And there was a lot going on. I think birthday celebrations were the last thing anyone was thinking about."

Natasha looks down at her hand, clenched around his shirt. He knows there are a lot of happy memories that make up last year, but there's also a lot that aren't and those are the ones that still make her shiver despite herself. "Ivan didn't even know when my birthday was. Not that it would have mattered because we didn't celebrate family things like that. But I remember thinking that maybe just having one person say it . . . might have made it better. Worth remembering, you know?"

Clint brushes his hand along the side of her face, tucking loose hairs away from her eyes. His thumb is soft as it skims down the bridge of her nose, making her smile. "I would have said it. If I had known."

"I know."

"And I'll say it this year, because you, Natasha Romanoff, deserve a very happy birthday."

She snorts as his pronunciation of her last name, though she kind of likes the way he's Americanized it. At least that's what he assumes.

When she looks up at him the humour bleeds into something more serious. "It will be happy," she tells him. "Because I have you now. That's all I need."

Clint can't exactly argue that because he feels the exact same way. That doesn't stop him from wanting to do something special though, and the gears in his head start turning. "Well," he tells her, "just think about it for a while."

**. . .**

It's exactly one week later that Clint pulls the guys together for an impromptu meeting while Natasha's in the shower. He's claimed a corner booth in the diner, staking it out after the dinner crowd has lessened. Bruce tucks in behind Steve, careful not to jostle too much next to his arm. Despite being injured, Steve's been in an increasingly good mood which Clint chalks up to as A) having tons of free time since his list of one-armed chores is literally non-existent meaning he has a lot more time to spend with Bucky, and B) no more football for the next few weeks.

"So what's up, Bromeo?" Tony says as he piles in beside Clint. "Where's your Juliette?"

Clint rolls his eyes. "What part of secret meeting and don't tell Natasha didn't you understand?"

"My bad, thought you guys were contractually obligated to appear together?"

"Yeah, whatever, look—Natasha's birthday is coming up and I have this idea but it's kind of huge, but not like bad huge, just . . . I want to renovate a part of the basement."

Tony's eyes light up. "What kind of time line are we talking about here?"

"Three weeks?"

"Well, you're going to need muscle," Bruce says. "And Thor's got the play coming up in December. He'll be busy with that for a while, don't forget. Also," he glances at Steve's arm, "we're down half our usual manpower."

"But, if it's home improvement Bucky would definitely help," Steve offers. "Not sure how Phil feels about more demolition though."

"Pssh, I already tried to get you a dog for your birthday," Tony says to Clint. "It didn’t fly with Phil and he was real sorry about it, so I'd say start with that and you're pretty much guaranteed to get a yes on what you actually want. Plus Natasha's like . . . you know, the only girl and Phil's pretty much a push over when it comes to her. Somehow she always gets out of trash duty."

"You're still just mad about the raccoon thing."

"They were small wolves!"

"Or a large squirrel," Clint mutters.

"Coyotes then."

"Mmm hmm, keep telling yourself that, Tony."

"I do. Now, when does this demolition start?"

"It's not a demolition," Clint says. "It's a renovation."

"Sure, sure. But I have the perfect thing for taking out drywall should we need it."

"You mean something better than a virtually indestructible cybernetic arm?" Steve asks.

Tony just grins.

"No! If you light anything on fire you are officially _not_ helping."

Tony scoffs. "There won't be a fire. I've made improvements since last time."

Clint thumps his head back against the booth. "Aw, _hell_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: The one where Natasha turns eighteen, there's feels and feels and feels, the brother thing gets more complicated, and Mrs. Barnes thinks they're all too skinny.
> 
> EXCERPT:
> 
> While the renovations happen they forcibly lock Natasha out of the basement for the better part of a week (Tony says he can do it in three days, but Clint's prepared for the inevitable hiccups that follow Tony around). And by forcibly Clint means he once has to pick her up and physically carry her away from the door. "You heard what Phil said. No one goes down there until he gets the hot water heater fixed. It's making a funny noise."
> 
> "Clint Barton, you have that I'm-lying-to-my-girlfriend look on your face."
> 
> "I do not!"
> 
> She hums and drags a hand through his hair. "I really have to do my laundry, Clint."
> 
> "You have clothes. You're wearing clothes. Phil said the plumber will be out in a few days."
> 
> "It's not the clothes part I'm worried about. Contrary to your belief, a girl only has so many pairs of underwear."
> 
> "You can borrow mine," he says, to which she snorts and shakes her head.
> 
> "My boyfriend, the romantic."


	5. Buried Deep

Seeing as Natasha will turn eighteen at the end of November, the last of them in the house to reach that milestone, Clint's amassed an army of testosterone to do what guys to best. Break shit, then fix it.

Though, without Steve's attention to detail (since he's out of commission with the collar bone) there's several more walls that are mistakenly demoed, adding extra days of unexpected dry walling onto the project, but for the most part, Clint's satisfied with the progress.

He wanted to make this birthday special for her. Her first birthday in the house, her first birthday officially with him, the first one that she's gotten to celebrate since long before her mom died.

He knows she doesn't want a big thing, but this is everything. It means she's a survivor, and if he can't tell her how proud he is of everything she's accomplished in the past year, then he's going to show her.

Which is why, with Phil's blessing, they're building her a studio in the back of the basement.

It's not big thing because it's just her, but there's a length of mirrors and special flooring and a one of those fancy grab bars you always see in those cheesy dance rom-coms (Natasha likes cheesy dance rom-coms so he's seen enough of them to know). Tony even installs and upgrades a stereo system, downloading enough classical music to put a herd of colicky newborns to sleep.

And Clint can testify to this because he's been laying floor boards for hours now, rubbing his eyes and sipping coffee because he's got Mozart and Tchaikovsky rattling around inside his head and they're apparently soporific.

He yawns, leaning back on his knees to street out his muscles. There's kinks in his body where there's never been kinks before, but the floor looks damn good. Too bad he's only down about a quarter of it.

Rubbing the life back into his knuckles, Clint begins again, following along the length of the basement until his spine starts to ache and he stops for another break.

"Need some help?"

Clint looks up from laying plywood and spies Barney on the stairs. His first instinct is to decline, to glower, and push Barney away because he's still pissed about the things he said about Steve. But Clint can't deny the rush of relief he feels in his gut. It's not like he though Barney was lying dead in some ditch somewhere, but . . . _well_   . . .

"Tony let me in. He said you could probably use some since you're down a football player." Barney rubs absently at the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact.

"Where've you been?" Clint asks, tone almost as stiff as his muscles.

Barney shrugs. "Around. Odd jobs. Gotta feed myself somehow." He takes a few tentative steps down the stairs. "Look, Clint, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean what I said. I guess I just don't get it. I never got to have what you have, yeah? It takes some getting used to."

"Being a good person doesn't take getting used to. You either are or you're not."

"Yeah, well, maybe for the prodigal son. I've made a lot of bad choices in my life, Clint. We both know that. But I'm trying to change that."

Change? Really? Clint resists the urge to scoff. To glower at his brother and run him off again because as angry as he was, he's also spent the last couple weeks carrying around a nagging sense of guilt at having sent Barney away. He wasn't sure if Barney had changed or would change? But _he_ had changed. Clint was a better person. Thanks to Phil, he could _be_ the better person now. Maybe he owed Barney the same chance.

"Yeah, alright, Barn," he says, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. Here they go again, starting from square one. Fresh slate.

Barney covers the distance between them, reaching down to help Clint to his feet. "So, we cool then?"

"Yeah, we're cool."

Barney looks relieved; honest to goodness pleased, and Clint can't help but feel that a look that genuine wouldn't be there if Barney truly didn't mean what he said.

"Good," Barney says, "So, help? Apparently there's a deadline on this thing." He glances around with a vacant expression. "What is this thing exactly?"

Clint chuckles. "Natasha's birthday present. Or, at least, it will be. In a few more days hopefully."

"You're giving her hardwood floors? Look, man, I don't know much about giving girls birthday presents, but aren't there usually go-to things like flowers and chocolate? Don't girls usually swoon over that kind of stuff?"

Clint looks around at the half finished project and his heart swells a bit. "Not this girl."

Barney shrugs dramatically before dropping his hands to his hips. "As long as you're sure." He rolls up his sleeves then. "Well, if I can scoop elephant shit, I think I can lay flooring. Where do I start?"

With a smile, Clint hands Barney the extra mallet and directs him to a pile of stacked flooring.

They work the afternoon away together and it's like old times. There's laughter and good-natured ribbing and Clint's abdomen hurts by the end because Barney's as big of a goof as he remembers. It's utterly and completely impossible that he feels like he's six again and playing cops and robbers with Barney out back in the Iowa corn fields. But he does.

And he likes this part.

This is part of his past that doesn’t hurt to remember.

In fact, it makes him smile.

**. . .**

When the studio is officially done (floor mopped, stereo programmed, and a beautiful red ribbon draped over the mirrors) they have to forcibly lock Natasha out of the basement for the better part of a week. And by forcibly Clint means he once has to pick her up and physically carry her away from the door.

"You heard what Phil said. No one goes down there until he gets the hot water heater fixed. It's making a funny noise."

"Clint Barton, you have that _I'm lying to my girlfriend_ look on your face."

"I do not have that look. I do not lie to you."

She hums and drags a hand through his hair. "I have to do my laundry, Clint."

"You have clothes. You're wearing clothes. Phil said the plumber will be out in a few days."

"It's not the clothes part I'm worried about. Contrary to your belief, a girl only has so many pairs of underwear."

"You can borrow mine," he says, to which she snorts and shakes her head.

"My boyfriend, the romantic." But she leans up to kiss him and the weight of her arms around his neck drags him down and he settles over top of her, straddling her waist and gosh he hopes no one walks in right now. All they're doing is kissing, but well, it's a damn good kiss.

Natasha arches against him, until he can feel the pull of her breasts against his chest and the pressure is addictive and he finds himself pressing her into the couch, weight flush against her. Her breathing changes, falling shallow against his lips as his knee dips between her legs.

Her tongue glides over her lips, eyes searching his face before she pulls them back together and her tongue is pressing against his, hot and wet and everything he wants as she lifts her hips to roll against him.

The back door opens and Clint can hear footsteps in the kitchen and he drops his head against Natasha's shoulder to groan.

He sits up before anyone realizes they're here. Natasha stares at him through hooded eyes, which really isn't helping. Eventually she forces her gaze up and away from him, staring at the ceiling. "You know, if I'm not allowed to do laundry, you'll have to take me shopping again."

"Is that what that was? To butter me up?"

"Thought it might take a little incentive."

He scrunches his face up.

"This can be your birthday present to me," she offers.

He frowns at that. "Aw, Tash. You don't have to do that. I'll take you."

She smirks. "And here I thought I was offering you a get out of birthday shopping free card. You sure you want to pass up the opportunity? I won't hold it against you."

"I am not taking you to the mall as your birthday present. I am taking you to the mall because I love you. I know you're not big on the whole birthday thing, but keep trying." He pulls her hand up and presses a kiss to her knuckles. "There must be something you really want: girly things, jewelry, flowers, me wrapped up with a bow?"

She snickers. "You're a goof."

"And you love me for it."

"I suppose I do."

"No supposing about it." He leans over and nuzzles her neck until she's giggling into his hair.

"Alright, I'll think about it. The bow thing is kind of tempting."

Clint wiggles his eyebrows and makes a show of flexing. "I have been told that I have amazing arms."

"God, let me get upstairs before the clothes start coming off!" Tony yelps, trudging through the living room, backpack held up to shield his face.

"Nothing is coming off," Clint huffs, though he's smiling at Natasha. "We're going to the mall."

"Well on that note," Tony says, wheeling around, "shotgun."

Clint wrinkles his nose at him. "Who invited you?"

" _'We're'_ implied everyone in the room, including me. And Bruce. He's in the diner and we need more wire for our—"

"If you promise not to explain, you can come, but you sit in the back. And if you light anything on fire I swear to god you're walking home."

Tony salutes. "Sure thing, boss. Also I didn't fill the van up last time, so we need to stop for gas." He takes off up the stairs, leaving Clint to glare.

"Why do I feel like we've just ended up on babysit Tony duty."

Natasha smiles and pecks him on the cheek. "Because we have. I'll grab my coat and meet you at the van."

Fifteen minutes later Clint walks into the garage.

Steve rushes out after him. "So I hear we're going to the mall?" he says, Bucky right behind him.

"Who keeps inviting people?" Clint says, throwing his arms up as he casts a look at Natasha over the hood of the van. She just grins and shrugs before climbing inside. "Does no one work tonight?"

The honk of a horn draws his attention back to the door. Tony is hanging between the front seats impatiently.

"Let's go!" he mouths against the window, drawing an angry emoticon in the fog made by his breath.

Clint opens the door and climbs in. "Can we not go five minutes without you licking the windshield, Tony?" He adjusts the seat and starts the ignition. "Okay, and seriously, if anyone has to pee, go now. I am not making a pit stop for a forty minute drive into the city." He looks at Tony in the rear view mirror.

"I'm fine."

Thirteen minutes into the drive he has to pull over at some scary-ass truck stop. Clint knocks his head against the steering wheel as everyone but him and Natasha file out (Bucky's dragged along for security more than anything). "You think I could just leave them here?" he groans.

Natasha laughs. "Phil would kill you."

"He wouldn't have to know. Little buggers, we'd miss 'em, but who the hell would know? I'd take that secret to my grave." He looks over at Natasha. She smiles at him.

"Is this where I tell you I'd help you bury the body if you ever kill someone?"

He smiles back. "I'd help you bury your bodies, too."

She chuckles again, dark and sultry, before patting his shoulder. "Babe, if I ever kill someone there won't be a body to find."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an interlude chapter . . . still to come: Natasha's birthday, more brother problems, and a whole lotta borscht.


	6. Let Me Look in your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which plans are being made, Clint decides to reach out, and birthday presents finally happen.

The mall is packed for a Monday night. (They actually have to park in the weird garage at the edge of the lot that houses a few run-away cats and a menagerie of beat-in shopping carts).

It's that pre-Christmas rush, Steve says.

Clint nods in agreement as they weave their way through the aisles of rundown mom vans in the parking lot and into the side doors, entering beside one of seven banks in the mall. The hockey moms are out in the hundreds, scoring early deals and double-taking at the prices on the latest and greatest in the world of electronics.

Tony and Bruce make eyes as they pass the Apple store, but there's whispered comments of " _we could do it better,"_ so no one stops to browse. Clint actually thinks Tony would be really offended if he did stop, even though he needs a new I-pod because the batteries on his have finally given out, so instead he threads his hand through Natasha's and hauls her close enough to wrap his arm around her waist.

She leans into him as they walk.

When they finally reach the food court, the group breaks off into two's. Bucky and Steve head towards the Sport-check while Bruce and Tony saunter off to who knows where—probably to go mess with the sales clerks in the Source again.

Clint smirks after them, remembering a mall trip last year that got Tony banned from three electronic stores and his picture tacked up in the security office. He really forgets how to function in society sometimes.

Natasha tugs on his arm gently, fingers dancing across his palm. "You want food since we're here? I'm hungry."

Clint inhales and the Chinese/pizza concoction make his mouth water. (He's secretly dreading the day his metabolism fails and he can no longer exist on pizza and deep fried goodness). "I do," he says, "but not here. There's a restaurant attached to the mall. Let's shop and then go there."

Natasha looks up to smile at him. "Oh, a real restaurant, huh? Is this a date?"

"Yep, despite the fact we had to bring the children along. I think we sufficiently ditched them though, now, so you want to go somewhere they have real menus and stick little lemons wedges on your water glass?"

Natasha's lip curls up, but she glances at her phone. "Do we have time for all that?"

Clint laughs, stringing his arm over her shoulder and leading her towards the fancy underwear store where the sales women like him. "Seriously, Tony and Bruce are going to be like an hour in the hardware store. We have time. Underwear first, then food. It's on the way."

"That's very practical of you."

Clint smirks. "Yeah, you could say that."

. . .

Dinner is fun—in that lazy, no worries kind of way.

Mostly because they don't have to clean up the dishes as they eat.

Also because Natasha decides to sit beside him in the booth and not across, which lets him kiss her freely and watch her blush as the waiter skims by. She gets giggly after a couple sodas, though maybe it's his fault for teasing her, but Clint likes being goofy with her sometimes, at least until the food arrives. Then it's all business.

They eat burgers and fries (well Natasha gets a salad), but she also eats half of his fries, so it doesn't really count.

Also they fight over how much vinegar and ketchup to add and Clint ends up dumping half the bottle on his plate. His fingers stick together and taste like apple cider. He makes a point of kissing Natasha and watching the face she makes as her lips pucker from the sour.

Clint chuckles and pushes his plate across the table to be picked up. He's full anyway and there's still the option of dessert, so . . .

"Be right back," he says, slipping out of the booth to go wash his hands.

He spends an extra minute washing off the outline of Natasha's peach lip gloss from his cheek. It would be just like her sneaky self to let him walk around like that all day. He grins despite himself.

On his way out of the bathroom Clint spies a guy by their table, not the waiter, but some other employee. He's leaning casually against the booth, blonde hair slicked back, and Natasha's laughing at whatever he's saying before the guy bends down and scribbles something down on a piece of paper.

Clint draws closer, close enough to register that it's a phone number written on the back of their receipt.

Natasha nods her head and accepts it.

When she sees Clint she goes to stand but he sandwiches her back into the booth with a gentle bump of his hip.

"So, I leave you for two minutes and you're picking up other guys?" he teases, though he can't deny the tiny (real tiny, like not even there, but there) flicker of jealousy in his chest.

She giggles as he pulls at her waist, trying to reach the receipt. "How did you see that from all the way over there, huh?"

"Oh, you know, it's my superpower. Now let me see."

"No, Clint, you're not going to go beat up the bartender."

"Oh, he works the bar does he?"

"Don't be like that."

"Like what?"

"Jealous." She pecks his lips and Clint can taste peaches. "He's got nothing on you. Besides, the number wasn't for me. It was for you. He asked me if you were single."

"He . . . what?"

Natasha takes a long sip from her almost empty drink, rattling the ice around the bottom of the glass. "I think it's the shirt."

"What's wrong with my shirt?"

"Nothing. But it's singles night and your arms look particularly nice."

Clint rolls his eyes. "You're lying."

"I do not lie to you."

He huffs a laugh. "Let's get out of here."

Natasha raises a pointed eyebrow but her eyes are dark and intense under the light. It's the kind of look that usually leads to kisses that are not exactly safe for public display. "Gary's going to be upset," she says, "but yes, I agree." She leans forward and places another gentle kiss against his lips, barely brushing his skin. "Thank-you for dinner."

"You're welcome."

They find the guys in the mall food court ten minutes later, huddled around one of those big circle tables with too many chairs. Clint's still sucking on the lollipop the waiter left them after he paid the bill. It's green apple and sour, making the backs of his cheeks twitch.

"And where have you two been?" Tony asks, tipped back in his chair with his feet on the table, slurping down a lime-green smoothie.

"Eating," Clint says. "What about you? Where are all these shopping bags?"

"In the van," Bruce says, sliding the keys back across the table to Clint. "Also, someone has to sit in the jumper seat up front with you two."

"Aw, you bought that much stuff?"

Bruce nods and touches his nose. "Not it."

Steve and Bucky both scream " _not it!"_ with so much gusto everyone near them looks up from their meals, leaving Tony to be squished on the ride home.

"Wonderful," Clint says. He plops down beside Bucky and Natasha perches on the edge of his chair. He wraps an arm around her waist to hold her there, liking the feel of her leaning against his chest. She's twirling her own lollipop around her mouth and Clint can hear the 'pop' every time it passes her lips.

"So, what's this big secret project anyway?" Steve asks Tony and Bruce. "You guys have been skulking around for weeks."

"It's not fully fleshed out yet," Tony says. "But it's gunna be good."

Bruce nods. "I'm going to use it as my final project for applications to MIT."

"So you're set on Massachusetts, then?" Steve asks.

"Always have been. They have an excellent genetics program." He looks over at Tony. "You should come."

"Eh, school, I'll think about it."

"It looks good. No one's going to listen to a kid genius that doesn't have a PhD behind his name."

"But they'll listen to a kid genius that's got his name written across the side of a building in the middle of New York."

"Touché," Clint says.

"Applications start soon, don't they," Natasha says to Bruce. "Just before Christmas?"

"Yeah, I've already started on my essays. Should be finished up by the end of this week."

Clint groans and Tony chuckles. "Better get on that Barton." He drops his chair back on four legs.  "What about you, Red? Any plans yet."

Natasha turns to glance at Clint. "Nothing concrete. I think I might just go general first year, figure out a major as I go."

Steve nods. "That's what I've kind of been thinking. But also, maybe, like the army."

"What?" Tony and Bruce say together.

Clint feels Natasha stiffen against him.

The only one who doesn't look surprised is Bucky, though he doesn't look entirely happy about it either.

"Dude, why?"

"What happened to art school?"

Steve shrugs. "It's just an idea. I'm just . . . my dad served before he died. So, I'm just thinking about it."

"Way to drop a bomb," Tony says.

"Nothing's for sure. I haven't even talked to a recruiter or anything yet."

"Well, don't rush into anything," Tony continues. "That's a big commitment."

"This is what I've been saying," Bucky says. He sounds exasperated, like it's something they've hashed out a lot.

Steve nods. "I know. I'm not rushing into anything right now."

"Good," Clint says. "At least talk to Phil first."

They pack up shortly after that and Clint thinks that maybe he should start talking to people. About what? He doesn’t know really. His grades are decent, but honestly school's not his favourite thing. The only thing he's really good at is shooting and he doesn't think there's a lot of money in being an archery instructor. Not enough to build a life off of and take care of Natasha with. Of course she’ll be able to take care of herself and he'd never suggest otherwise, but he'd like to be able to help. He'd like . . . well, maybe he should talk to Fury before school lets out for Christmas.

. . .

The drive back is quite, sombre. James Bay is playing on the radio, just audible over the quite hum of conversation drifting between Bucky and Steve.

When they get back to the house, the diner is already closed up for the night.

Clint can hear Sam and Phil laughing out in the office as he settles down on the couch with Natasha, flicking on the T.V.

Later, when Clint's eyes are starting to drift with sleep, Phil walks in, loosening his tie. "Did you find your brother?"

Clint untangles himself from around Natasha and sits up, looking over his shoulder, suddenly awake. "Barney was here?"

Phil looks down the hall. "Told him to wait in the kitchen. Is he not there?"

"No one was here when we came in." Clint stands. "I'll go look again."

Phil follows him into the kitchen. There's no sign of Barney, but the back door's unlocked.

"Maybe he left," Phil says with a shrug, flicking the latch.

"How long ago was he here?"

"An hour maybe."

Clint nods. It's dark now. Late. Wherever Barney is, he hopes he's settled in for the night at least.

Phil pours himself a glass of water from the kitchen tap and leans back against the crook of the counter top. "Where is he staying?"

Clint sighs and rubs at the back of his head. "You know, I don't really know. Never get a straight answer."

Phil stares at a spot on the counter, hard at thought. "The couch is free now that Natasha's moved upstairs. Just . . . it's an option. Not permanent or anything. But it's there."

"Thanks," Clint says, though he can't tell from the loops in his stomach if he means it or not.

. . .

There are voices on the stairs early the next morning, well before there usually are, and it draws Clint from his sleep. He glances at the clock and mentally groans.

Natasha looks warm and content beside him and he deliberates snuggling up next to her for a few more minutes, but there's nothing worse than hearing the alarm after you've just resettled. So he forces himself to get up, even to get into the shower, despite the fact it's still freezing this early.

He makes his way groggily down the stairs after that and waits at the table. Steve's already there, staring in to his plate of eggs, stirring them around and around. Tony and Natasha wander down eventually and snag toast and orange juice.

Clint leans his head against Natasha's shoulder, closing his eyes until she's finished and moves to put their dishes in the sink.

Phil sighs from his spot at the counter, running a hand around the back of his neck. "Boys, wait, sit. Natasha," Phil continues, gesturing to the seat beside Clint. She plops back into it, eyes wide. Uncertain.

Everyone stills, shifty eyes sliding back and forth between them. Something's up.

"Look," Phil says, "we had something go missing yesterday and I just need to know if anyone knows anything about it?"

"Missing?" Tony says, brows hiked in question.

"The necklace Steve keeps on his dresser," Phil says. "The one that belonged to his mother."

 _Oh_ , Clint thinks. That would have explained the voices this morning.

"Dude," Tony says suddenly, looking at Steve. "It wasn't me."

Clint shakes his head and looks at Natasha.

"When did you see it last?" she asks.

Steve shrugs. "I never even thought to look. Who knows how long it's been gone. It just sits in that little dish on my dresser . . . could have . . . I don't . . ." he trials off. "I know no one in the house took it obviously. It's been there for years. I just, if anyone sees it . . . just, so you know it's missing."

"Yeah, of course man," Tony says.

Phil nods. "Okay. Everyone keep an eye out. And for the time being, I want you to start locking the house door behind you during the day, the one that connects to the diner hall."

"You think someone came in from the diner?" Tony asks, "Without any of us noticing?"

"Well, Steve obviously didn't lose it, and none of us took it." Phil sighs. "Just trying to cover all our options. Better safe than sorry until we track it down."

. . .

Steve's unusually quiet for the rest of the day and it bleeds into the rest of the house. Clint feels terrible for him. He knows what it's like to hold on to little pieces of your past and losing them, well, it was as bad as losing the people from your past.

It was like losing them all over again.

So when Barney shows up that night to visit, Clint's throat feels incredibly thick, and he kind of wants to throw his arms around him in a hug.

But there's this itch at the back of his mind that he hasn't been able to shake since this morning. Just something . . .

_"Did you find your brother?"_

_"Barney was here?"_

_"Told him to wait in the kitchen. Is he not there?"_

Clint shivers in the November chill.

"You're quiet. You okay?" Barney asks as they sit on the back porch because Phil doesn't like Barney smoking out front where the customers are. Clint didn't even know he smoked until recently.

He shrugs. "Some stuff went missing from the house. Steve's mom's necklace. It's one of the only things he had left from her, so he's kind of bummed."

Barney takes a long drag from his cigarette. "Sucks, man."

"Yeah." Clint takes a breath. And then: "It wasn't you was it? Please tell me no." Barney hesitates just long enough for Clint to panic. "It's just, you've been hanging out here for the past couple weeks, helping us finish up the basement. And I didn't—"

"Clint, of course not." Barney pulls a pack from his pocket and lights up another cigarette. "Besides, you know the code."

_You don't steal from one of your own or their people. And these were Clint's people._

"Yeah," Clint says. "I do."

"What is it? Don't trust me?"

Clint looks at him side long for a long minute before exhaling, the burn of smoke filling his lungs on the next breath. "I trust the code."

Barney snorts. "Good answer."

Clint lets out a sigh; that's definitely not what he wanted to deal with tonight anyway. "So . . ." he says.

"So," Barney echoes, taking a drag. After a moment he chuckles. "Well spit it out already. I can tell you're chewing on something." His breath folds from between his lips in letters and smoky sounds.

"I just . . . if you've got nowhere to go tonight, the couch is free. Phil says you can stay. Not permanent or anything, but if you need a place, right now, well you're getting settled . . . it's there. Just wanted you to know."

"And that's okay with the rests of your troop? Tony and Steve? Natasha?"

Clint shrugs. "Phil approves. That’s usually all it takes."

"Alright," Barney says. "I might take you up on that offer." He flicks his fingers and stomps out the cigarette under his shoe. "Temporarily and all."

. . .

It gets better after that day. After the tension and awkwardness of that first night seeps away. After waking up to the cacophony that is the house in the morning, everyone bustling around half-awake and in various states of dress, groaning about school, Barney starts to get it. This family thing. Sometimes Clint even thinks he might like it. Being a part of something like this again.

. . .

He stays on the couch for the next couple days, on an off, claiming he's got odd jobs to work for friends. Clint doesn't push it because he's trying what Natasha said, to get to know this new Barney. He's also trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.

. . .

And it works like that. Spending time together. But also not spending time together. Sometimes Barney's around. When he is, he's polite to Phil. Nods to the guys, doesn't leer at Natasha. He even takes a turn at the supper dishes.

. . .

Barney takes off for a few days at the end of the week, right about the time of Natasha's birthday. Clint sort of wants him to stay since he put so much work in on the basement, but he's also okay with it because it feels personal. This birthday. Plus Clint's got things planned and he's not really going to be around to run interference between Barney and the rest of the house for a few days so maybe it's for the best.

Clint spends Friday afternoon out with Natasha, conjuring up random errands so the guys can get back to the diner after school and decorate.

Steve's put on balloon duty since he's down an arm to hang streamers and Bucky sends him a conspicuous video of Steve passing out in a mountain of balloons. Apparently even star football players get light-headed.

Clint manages to keep them busy for a few hours before Natasha starts to get antsy and he has to drive them back home. He sends the twenty minute warning text while Natasha's slipped off to use the bathroom.

He drums the steering wheel the entire way home and has to turn on the radio to cover his nerves. It's excitement. Mostly. Also a little bit . . . . well, what if she hates it?

"So," Clint says as they pull into the garage. "Tomorrow's the big day and you haven't told me what you want yet."

Natasha makes a noise at the back of her throat that might be a groan. She flops back against the seat. "You know I don't want a big thing. Please tell me you're not planning a thing for tomorrow? I will literally spend the entire day in the diner, working."

Clint laughs. "I know. That's why I planned it for tonight—"

Natasha gasps.

"—fair warning."

"You didn't?"

"I did." He reaches out to squeeze her knee. "C'mon Tash, you didn't think you'd get away with not letting us celebrate your birthday, did you? Phil would never let it go."

She sighs, staring out the windshield at the wall, puckered with dents from years of being beaten with football punts. "I suppose not. A girl can hope though."

Clint smiles at her tone. Resigned. A little cheeky even. He leans over to peck her cheek. "It's not a big thing, I promise. Just a thing. Come inside?"

"Well, that is the fastest way to my room."

Natasha follows him up the stairs and into the house. As expected, everyone's there, shouting surprise at the top of their lungs and Tony manages to blow his own ear drums out with one of those roll-up noise makers.

Natasha endures the round of hugs like a champ and a touching kind of moment with Phil as he wraps her in a hug that leaves her eyes closed and lips trembling as she absorbs it.

"There's pizza in the oven and cake in the fridge," Phil says when he pulls away. "Both Sam's recipes. But I think everyone's buzzing to get you down stairs to see what they've been working on."

"Am I about to find out that the water heater isn't really broken?" she quips, looking past Phil at the rest of them.

Clint shrugs, unable to hide his smile as he reaches for her and leads her to the door.

"You're no fun," Tony says, squeezing by them down the stairs, turning on the last step with his video camera to catch the entire thing. "You've got crazy spy senses like Clint."

Bucky snorts behind them. "Just more common sense then you, Tony."

Natasha rolls her eyes at them both, but as she turns, her eyes widen in shock, then awe, her hand coming up to rest over her lips. "What's all this?"

She looks at Clint and he feels his heart burst because those are happy tears. He's seen enough of them to know. He pulls her forward by the tips of her fingers, leading her towards the tiny studio they've created.

"You once told me you danced," he says. "But you said there weren't any good studios here, so we built you your own."

"You remembered?" she marvels, a swell of emotion clouding her throat.

"Well, yeah."

Her first step onto the floor is slow and tentative, eyes closing like she's absorbing the memory. When she moves next it's to run her hand along the barre and she bites her bottom lip to keep it from shaking. Her feet scoop along the floor, testing the glide beneath her socks.

"If the floor's uneven blame Clint," Tony says. "That was his job." He's leaning against the wall, still running the camera. There's feigned nonchalance in his lean, but Clint can see how much he wants to be here. How much they all wanted to be here to see this.

A laugh bubbles up from her throat through the rush of emotion and Clint feels the same sort of happiness he did the day Phil brought her back home after CPS took her away. The kind that makes his face hurt from smiling.

"It's wonderful," she whispers. "Thank you."

And it is.

And it's perfect.

And Clint officially leads the score in best presents ever given, even beating out Tony when he gave Steve his bike.

And if Natasha kisses him like nobody's business in the middle of the basement, with everyone watching, prompting Tony and Bucky to wolf-whistle, well, that's a little perfect too.

Back upstairs there's cake and presents, and more whistle blowing from Tony, all gathered around the table, until Bucky crushes the flimsy paper whistle between his metal fingers, smiling ruefully as he plops presents down on top of the remains.

Natasha insists that it's all too much but everyone's put way too much thought into everything so they force it upon her, and though she looks slightly overwhelmed, she starts with the card from Phil.

It's a voucher for her driver's ed. training. Bought and paid for. Phil was nothing if not practical and Natasha smiles up at him as he loops his arm around her front and plants a kiss on the top of her head. It's so paternal, so right, that Clint doesn't bat an eye as Natasha wipes at hers.

Next is from Steve and Bucky because they're pushing an intricately wrapped box towards her despite Tony's protests that he's next.

It's a hand drawn picture by Steve. A snap-shot of pictures really. It's a collage done up in black and white, like the kind of fancy sketches you'd find in a museum, except they're all of him and Natasha, various places, various states of smiles and laughter and quiet moments that weren't as unobserved as he initially thought.

Looking at it makes his heart clench.

"I don't know whether to be amazed," Tony snarks, rubbing at his chin that way he does when he's checking out something rather impressive, "or worried about the amount of time you must have stalked these two."

Everyone laughs and Steve ducks his head good-naturedly. It's a testament to how far they've come that his cheeks don't go red.

Natasha doesn't laugh, instead just flings her arms around Steve's neck and whispers thank you. _This_ makes Steve blush, and it might just be from the emotion in her voice, but for a second Clint wonders if it's because Natasha's cutting off the oxygen to his brain.

"How did you . . ." she trails off, pulling away.

Steve shrugs, gesturing to his arm. "Being benched gave me a lot of free time. Bucky framed it for me." He doesn't sound put-out though, and he positively glows when Natasha asks them to hang it up in her room as soon as they're done.

Tony's gift is a little more practical, a little more like Phil's. The tablet has all the language functions and apps someone like Natasha— _English, Russian, Spanish, French, and counting_ —could ever possibly need. "It's no Van Gough, but I thought someone with a language brain like yours needed a device with a little more processing power."

"Thank you, Tony," she says, clasping it to her chest. "It's perfect."

"Well, you know, gotta keep the genius flowing in the house."

Bucky also gives her a leather-bound book of Russian fairy tales written in Cyrillic. She tears up a bit as she runs her fingers over the binding, memories old and new written in her eyes as she looks up at them.

When the hype dies down and the boys are stuffing their faces (Sam's got a damn good recipe for pizza crust), Clint pulls Natasha aside and offers her one more gift—a small brown box wrapped in sheer green ribbon.

"Clint, you already gave me so much," she says, shaking her head.

"It's not from me . . . well it is, but courtesy of Thor, so we'll chalk it up to him too."

Natasha bites the inside of her cheek, running her fingers over the bow, hesitating.

"Just open it," he says, almost dancing with anticipation.

She does and with a hint of confusion, pulls a key from the box, old, like the kind used to lock up big gates in the forties.

She doesn't say it, but her eyes voice the question.

"Thor's parents own a cabin just North of here. He said it's real pretty up there now with the leaves and the cabin's winterized so I thought we could spend the weekend. Just you and me. Get away from here for bit." He holds the key up in front of her, dangling the offer between them.

She looks up at him under her lashes and nods.

He surges forward and kisses her. "I like your answer. Now get packed."

"Now?"

Clint laughs at her surprise. "I want to make the most of the weekend so I told Phil we'd be driving up tonight."

"What do I bring?"

"Just clothes. I already took care of everything else."

And with that he leaves her to pack, scooting out the garage door to start loading the van.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up:
> 
> It's a quiet kind of morning, both of them bumping hips in the kitchen as Clint sips his coffee and Natasha prods the kettle into boiling. 
> 
> It's just nice. The two of them and thinking about this, about how it could be with them one day makes Clint's insides shiver with nervous energy because the feeling is so good he doesn't want anything to ruin it.
> 
> Thinking that this might be them in five years.
> 
> Together.
> 
> Rubbing hips after long nights and lazy mornings.
> 
> Watching Natasha flit around in bare feet and a too long t-shirt.
> 
> It's a kind of simplicity he never thought he'd have. And at the same time it's exhilarating.
> 
> And for the first time he thinks about things like the long term and futures beyond college. Futures that involve rings and maybe white dresses and holy cow, is he sweating? She looks over at him, a tiny grin on her lips as she pours the water into her mug and her green eyes flicker with warmth.
> 
> And for the briefest flicker of a moment he contemplates what could have been. What might have . . . just . . . her eyes and his blonde hair or maybe his eyes and curiously good aim and her love of languages?
> 
> The flash disappears as fast as it appears because he knows it's not meant to be. He'd never be a good father anyway. The track record in his family is painful. But if he does anything with his life he's going to treat Natasha right. He's gunna make sure she knows he loves her. He'll spend every day from here until she gets sick of him telling her making sure she knows. He's never loved anyone the way he loves her. And he never will.
> 
> This thing that exists between them has laced them together: the broken parts of him to her and her to him.
> 
> "Clint?" she asks. "You okay?"
> 
> Yeah, he thinks. Just perfect.


	7. Just Let it Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter should literally be called the one with the smut. So, with that in mind, this was just an excuse to write a whole bunch of it. There's plot at the end, if you squint, and like some minor character development, but if smut is not your thing I highly suggest you skip this chapter. I'll recap (sans smut) in the next one so you shouldn't be missing anything really (except for Clintasha goodness) but that's completely your call. Call this your warning??? Your NSFW highlight. Your not appropriate to have on your phone at the family Easter dinner! Anyways, proceed at your own risk. :)

The drive up to the cabin is quiet.

Natasha reads him stories from her Russian fairy tale book, her feet propped up on the dash. He has no idea what anything means, but the sound of her voice, the harshness of the words, paint a picture regardless. He likes this part of her. The one that adapts and absorbs. She's like a completely different person, one that he wants to get to know all over again. Sometimes she lets it slip in their everyday life, the Russian: a whispered word to Bucky across the couch, a broken cry in bed when she's basking in white pleasure, a slip of the tongue and roll of her eyes when the Turners change their order three times during Sunday lunch rush. She cocks a pointed brow at him as his gaze lingers and he offers her a crooked smile before turning back to the road.

They listen to the radio and Natasha draws pictures against his palm.

They stop once to use the bathroom and take photos because the trees are shedding the last of their fall colours and Natasha smiles up against the twister of leaves that flurry her hair in the fading light.

Clint makes it his new background.

When they get to the cabin the lights are on, dimmed inside, but still bright enough he can follow the driveway up to the giant wrap around porch.

"Is someone here?" Natasha asks, leaning forward to follow the expanse of the property, eyes wide under the sight. Cabin might have been a little conservative.

"Thor said the lights are on a timer." Clint grabs the door, ready to step out when she utters, "Wait!"

He turns back and she grabs his hoodie, pulling herself up and across the seats until she reaches his lips. She kisses him hard enough to leave him breathless.

"What was that for?" he murmurs, eyes fluttering as he fights the goofy smile that threatens his face.

"Just . . ." she says, swiping the hair off his forehead. "Everything. I don't know what I did to deserve you, but you're good to me. Good in a way no one ever has been. So just . . . thank you."

"Natasha," he whispers, hand gliding along her cheek, cupping her jaw so he can run his thumb over her lips. "I love you."

"This is true," she says and he laughs, nudging her forehead with his own, glad for the moment, but also glad for the playfulness. Clint was no stranger to heavy. In fact, by now he was pretty much a seasoned veteran when it came to dealing with heavy, dysfunctional shit. But sometimes it was nice to be able to laugh about it. And somehow, Natasha could always make him laugh. That's how he knows it's right.

Sometimes her landmines still catch him off guard, especially when they were places he didn't expect them to be. But now, as he looks in her eyes, clear and glazed, he doesn't recognize the triggers. She's here with him. Completely his.

And the fact that she wants to be here, with him, makes him forget about all the shitty things that have ever happened to him in his life. He layers these good things on top, wiping out the red, the pain, the things that make him wince to think about. Natasha's good at that. Healing wounds he thought long lost to forgiveness and binding aches that he figured would chase him the rest of his life.

She's like his balm, healing these empty parts of his heart, and he can't tell her enough how much it means to him.

So he pecks her lips once more and then gets out of the van, scooting around the front to open her door.

She steps out with a dainty skip—a childlike excitement. "This place is really . . ." her voice cuts out for a second. "What does Thor's father do again?"

"Government stuff." Clint laughs as he shoulders their duffle bags. "Pays real good, huh?"

"Clearly. And it's okay that we're here?" she says as Clint unlocks the door and they push inside.

"More than okay." Clint takes her hand. "So, you want to take a tour first? Shower? I can make food? I brought food. Also like—"

He cuts out because Natasha kisses him again, wrapping her arms around his neck to haul herself close to him. She has this way of molding to his body, so he can feel every desperate ounce of how much she wants him. And boy does he want her.

"I've had enough food. How about we start in the bedroom?" she says and she looks up at him from beneath her lashes and just like that he's a goner and when her hands drop to squeeze his hips, rubbing them against each other, Clint figures she can feel just how much he wants her, too.

"Yes mam," he manages to grunt out, before reaching out and hauling Natasha off her feet.

She squeals, but manages to hold fast, arms still threaded around his neck as he carries her into the nearest guest room. He figures she isn't really picky at this exact moment. They can explore later.

By the time he drops her on the bed, she's already pulling his shirt up, deft fingers running over his skin, weaving across his abs and up his chest, fingering his belt loops as she rocks her hips up against his hardening erection.

"Clint," she huffs as he pulls away to flip his shirt over his head. It lands somewhere on the floor as he surges forward again, kissing her hard before playing with the buttons on the front of her shirt, hands firm against her skin.

Clothes come off quickly, some kind of desperate urgency in their moves until Clint realizes there's no need to rush. They're miles from anyone. Miles from anywhere. There's a lake at the edge of the property and circles of trees surrounding them. That's it.

And he wants to make this good for her.

Special.

Like he planned, at the back of his brain, where things are still ticking despite the fact his thoughts have congealed on a single cause. He thinks about bows and arrows and fletching, trying to get control of himself again. Focusing on the details.

When he does, when he's able to focus on anything but the feel of her hands on his skin, begging for something, urging for it, he shuffles down the bed, sheets ruffling along his bare skin, until he can run his fingers along her thighs.

She edges up on her elbows, looking down at him as his tongue swipes a slick path through her folds and instinct makes her hips jerk. Her eyes roll into her head, then snap back to his face when he pays special attention to that sensitive bundle of nerves. "Clint!" Her hands tug his hair, desperate, pleading. "Please."

Her chest heaves and the sight makes him harder, straining and pulling and every movement is tortuous pleasure.

He knows what she's asking for, even if she doesn't, so he wraps his arms under her hips, hauling her closer, and dips down to taste her again, to watch her unravel beneath him.

She does finally with a hard, silent shudder, back arching and hips shaking, almost bucking him from between her legs.

He chuckles against her skin as she reaches for him, smile lazy and serene, asking him for something completely different now. He crawls up her body, kissing along her stomach, above her navel, between her breasts, her neck, nibbling at the edge of her jaw before rising from the bed.

"Clint?"

He backs away with a languid smile, watching the glass bleed from her eyes, until they're clear and curious.

He walks over to the duffle bags he dropped when they burst into the room, perched on the window seat. He digs through his, glancing up to see their reflections, blue in the dark window. Natasha looks like some kind of goddess, ghostly and pale, otherworldly as she shifts on the bed, the curves of her catching light in the gleam of the glass. "I want to try something," he tells her reflection, holding up the tiny package in his hands.

"What?" she asks, scrambling to sit up. "What is it?"

Clint turns, carrying it over to the bed, offering it up for inspection. Her eyes widen, but it's only for a moment before she's looking at him. He shrugs, "A vibrator. One of Tony's ever helpful suggestions?"

She sucks in a breath that's meant to be a laugh. "You're taking sex advice from Tony now?"

"He does know his stuff. Though I did my own research and purchasing."

At that she almost looks embarrassed. "You had that sent to the house?"

"Hell no. Phil would suffer a stroke." He crawls onto the bed, pressing a kiss to her knee. "I went into the city on an errand. Made a pit stop. Had some really interesting conversations with the sex shop owners. Some I still wish I could burn from my brain."

He grins up at her, shuffling closer on his knees and she laughs, though he can hear the uncertainty in her voice, see it in the quick flicker of her eyes. He touches two fingers to her cheek. "Hey, we don't have to if you don't want to."

She swallows, tilting her head to examine the little device. It's small and egg shaped, as inconspicuous as any sex toy could probably ever be. It's not that she doesn't want to. He can tell. It's just that it's new. And new means getting used to it. Taking time. He did sort of spring it on her. But there's also curiosity there and arousal. He can tell by the way her hands drift down her own body, touch light and lingering, almost absent of thought in their pleasure seeking as she meets his eyes. "I want to," she says finally, voice a husky whisper, lost somewhere between desire and need.

"Lie down."

She does, shifting up against the insane amount of pillows on the bed, holding her partially upright thanks to their bulk.

He leans his weight along her body, holding steady long enough to kiss her fully. When he's satisfied with the breathless sound she makes, he plants his knees on either side of her thighs and drags the toy along her skin.

"Ohhh," she moans when he wastes no time finding the right kind of spot or turning it on.

He presses it against the top of her sex, gently at first, barely brushing the skin, but she responds immediately, in earnest, hips reaching out for the friction. His movements are stilted and tentative, much like the first time they were together, as he figures out what she likes. It helps that she's vocal about it now, thighs quivering as he brings the vibrator to rest against that little nub of pleasure. Her entire body seizes into an arch, almost like a stretch, and then her eyes snap open, searching for his face before she breaks, eyes rolling back into her head with a ragged cry.

She fidgets as she comes back down. "Clint . . . I can't . . ." she mumbles, hips still rutting, pulling away from the vibrations. "Too soon."

He leaves her clit and buries his face between her thighs, tongue dipping into her wet center, and the way that she tugs at his hair and moans his name makes him positively crazy, until he's thrusting against the mattress.

He chases his tongue with one finger, and then two, hooking and stroking along her inner walls, delighting in the way she twists for him, hips unsure of which way to move, body chasing that same feeling of pleasure.

When her fingers run against his scalp he knows she's getting close again.

"Clint . . ." she pants. "Clint, please."

He lets his tongue drift up, licking long swipes against her clit again. She moans, dark and filthy, a sound he'll never hear anywhere but the bedroom from her.

When he pulls his mouth away her hips follow him, as does a whine. He swipes a hand across his chin and snags the vibrator again, pushing it back in place. The reaction is immediate and stronger than last time, less foreign and more welcomed.

She undulates against the force of the vibrations and Clint's straining so hard against his boxers he contemplates bringing himself off against the sheets, but Natasha moans his name and tugs on the waistband of his boxers, too lost to actually pull them down. Her head thrashes against the pillows, muttering to him in Russian as her hips arch.

He presses her thighs together, holding the vibrator there between her legs while he slips a condom on. It rolls on tight he's so hard, and it takes an immense amount of deep breathing to keep from blowing his load in his own hands.

He squeezes himself a couple of times, can't really help it as he crawls back up the bed towards her. Instinct drives her legs apart as the bed dips and then he's seated at her entrance, sliding against her wetness. "Please," she begs. "Please."

With that he slides in, buried deep, and they both groan in unison, a sweet kind of music.

He moves first, only because she hasn't, and it's a gentle pull back before he drives in again. She makes a pleased little moan at the back of her throat and Clint thumbs the vibrator she's still holding to herself. This time when he thrusts he angles so that he nudges the vibrator with his hips and she jolts at the touch.

He pulls back again and drives a little deeper, reaching that sweet spot that has her keening, back arching off the bed. He makes a series of short thrusts, all angled at that one spot and she's panting out his name, begging, and pleading and promising things. Harder. Faster. More.

So he does.

He thrusts until his own thighs quake, until he thinks he might collapse. Natasha's legs wrap around him, her eyes crushed tight with concentration. He watches the way her breasts bounce as he drives them both towards something more.

One hand balances him and the other reaches down to pluck at her nipples, stiff with pleasure. He thumbs one before pinching it between his fingers. She groans at the new sensation and he snaps his hips against hers, seating himself inside her just in time to feel her walls spasm.

"Clint, uhhhnn . . ."

He pumps faster, harder, chasing his own pleasure. His hips drive upwards, hands pressed into the mattress by her head, dick throbbing inside her wet heat. Heat spreads through his gut and he bears down with a grunt, feeling the first waves roll through him. He bares his hips down against Natasha, pushing the vibrator against her still quivering body and he thinks he tips her into another orgasm, though it might just be the same one as she cries out, mindless with pleasure.

Eventually she reaches between them, and he realizes that she's pulling the vibrator away and sighs, long and heavy, holding him to her chest. "Okay, so maybe Tony knows what he's talking about," she murmurs.

"But we're not telling him that."

"Definitely not."

"That was amazing though."

"Mmm . . ." She blinks at him sleepily.

"Tash?"

"Hmm . . ."

He kisses her forehead. "Happy birthday."

. . .

The next day starts with a quiet kind of morning in the far-too-marvelous-to-be-a-kitchen kitchen, both of them bumping hips as Clint sips his coffee (really good coffee at that) and Natasha prods the kettle into boiling.

It's just nice. Just the two of them. Thinking about this, about how it could be with them one day, makes Clint's insides shiver with nervous energy because the feeling is so good he doesn't want anything to ruin it.

Thinking that this might be them in five years.

Together.

Rubbing hips after long nights and lazy mornings.

Watching Natasha flit around in bare feet and a too long t-shirt.

It's a kind of simplicity he never thought he'd have. And at the same time it's exhilarating.

And for the first time he thinks about things like the long term and futures beyond college. Futures that involve rings and maybe white dresses and holy cow, is he sweating? She looks over at him, a tiny grin on her lips as she pours the water into her mug and her green eyes flicker with warmth.

And for the briefest flicker of a moment he contemplates what could have been. What might have . . . just . . . her eyes and his blonde hair or maybe his eyes and curiously good aim and her love of languages?

The flash disappears as fast as it appears because he knows it's not meant to be. He'd never be a good father anyway. The track record in his family is painful. But if he does anything with his life he's going to treat Natasha right. He's gunna make sure she knows he loves her. He'll spend every day from here until she gets sick of him telling her making sure she knows. He's never loved anyone the way he loves her. And he never will.

This thing that exists between them has laced them together: the broken parts of him to her and her to him.

"Clint?" she asks. "You okay?"

"Hmm, oh, yeah. Fine. Just thinking."

"About what?"

"Everything. Nothing." He smirks. "How much I want to take that shirt off you."

She giggles when his hand brushes over her hip. He doesn't go any further. He's kinda hungry, and so is she, judging by the way she eyes the contents of the fridge.

She moves the carton of milk out of the way, picking at the bag of grapes. "Is that all guys think about?"

"Not all," he says. "But like, it's probably there, at the back of my head at least forty percent of the time. It goes up when you look like that, though."

She pulls her head out of the fridge to stare at him. "When I look like what?"

"Sex ravaged."

She hums: a breathy little sound. "And who's fault is that?"

Clint raises his mug at her. "Touché."

"Well, anyway, I'll do my best to stop distracting you."

"Couldn't even if you tried, babe."

"How about a different distraction then?" She pulls out the carton of eggs. "Omelets?"

Clint puts his mug down on the counter and crosses the kitchen towards her. "Tash, this is your birthday weekend. I'll cook for you."

She kisses him over the top of the fridge door. "We'll cook together."

Clint raises an eyebrow at her, something that reminds her that last time she was in charge of cooking they had pizza because apparently Natasha has the cooking prowess of a goldfish.

She rolls her eyes. "Fine, I'll watch."

"Good. I like it when you watch."

"I'm sure you do." She grins at him, just a tip of her lips, and now they're playing a completely different game.

It's as if the charge in the air has shifted, beckoning them together. Clint bumps the fridge door closed and slides his hands around her back before lifting her up onto the counter, fingers digging into her hips. Her chest juts out when he brushes his fingers along the edge of her panties.

Teeth pressed into her bottom lip, he can hear the jut of air that gets caught in the back of her throat, and with a wicked smile he lets his finger drag along her center. He's surprised to find her wet, and tips his head to meet her gaze. "Is this all _you_ think about?" he teases.

She wraps her hand round his forearm, her other hand braced against the edge of the marble counter top, fingers white with pressure. She squeezes his arm, both halting his movements and holding him to her, her eyelids fluttering closed as if to save the moment. Seal it as memory.

He bends his head then, nudging her thighs apart with his nose, tipping forward enough to mouth at her center, tongue pushing the soaked panties aside to taste between her folds. She gives a breathy sort of cry that has his fingers digging into the fleshy part of her hips.

"Uhnnn . . ." her hands fist in his hair. "Clint," she moans, holding his head against her, but the angle is wrong and he finds himself scooping her off the counter and swinging them onto the overstuffed arm chair in the living room.

It's as cushioned as the bed was and Natasha sinks into it as she folds back where he dropped her, leaving her open to him. Willing and wanting.

Immediately he drops to his knees and drags the hem of her panties down. She's slick and warm against his tongue as he dives back in.

He rubs at that bundle of nerves, circling and circling until she's a mess, until he has to hold her still for fear of being kneed in the face. These are his favourite moments: when she's perched on the edge, ridding that line right before spinning out of control.

And it's freeing, not having that itch at the back of his head that any number of people could walk in on them. Because of the diner the house was never really empty. There was always the risk someone might drop by.

There was also a sense of urgency when they came together, knowing that their space wasn't always private. But being alone like this Clint can take his time, enjoy mapping her body, the dips and curves his fingers dance over, memorizing the rhythm of her breaths beneath her ribs, cataloging the spots of skin that make her shiver delightfully.

Clint likes knowing the ways to unravel her.

Likes the way he can make her arch, seeking friction and release.

Clint never thought knowing someone like this was possible, knowing how to read their thoughts from blinks and sighs and moans. How to break into the very core of a person, how to understand their every thought. To want to share every thought with them.

He looks up at her, lips wrapped around that warm bundle, sucking gently. Her eyes are warm and fuzzy, red hair wrapped around her shoulders, sticking to the cushions behind her. She's beautiful and Clint can feel his heart thump in his throat.

Suddenly she gasps, sucking the breath into her lungs and his lips wander up, crawling over her skin. He pulls the t-shirt over her head and he can feel the pull of muscle in her stomach, the tremor in her chest as he moves.

"That wasn't exactly breakfast," she pants, reaching forward to kiss that taste of herself off his lips.

He moans a bit when her hands wander south, nails toying along his abs.

Dipping further, she finds him straining against his boxers and immediately reaches down inside to tug him out, pumping him to full hardness between her hands. He thinks she's about to get him off like this, and boy is he ready, but then she shifts, turning her back to him and scrambling up on her knees. She leans against the arm of the chair and lifts her backside against his hardness.

He rubs her ass between his hands, massaging the silk of her skin as his length brushes between her cheeks, seeking out the wet heat of her core. He can feel the anxious tremor rip down his legs and he resists the urge to bury himself in the wet heat he can feel.

"Tash," he groans. "Condom."

She pulls at him, drawing him closer, nails pressed into the flesh of his thighs. "We don't need it," she pants. "I'm on birth control." Her hand tugs again, begging.

Clint stills for a moment, blinking out of the fog of euphoria swirling around inside his head because . . . _what?_ "Wait . . . when?"

She turns to look over her shoulder. "I started last month. I've been wanting to for a long time now."

He blinks again in surprise.

They've always been careful. Between Phil and Tony's safe sex speeches it was kind of hard not to and really, what was the big deal? They were still young, still kids in love, and despite what he felt, he understood that most people figured this was a stepping stone of a relationship, so why would you not want to use a condom. He'd never complained or thought too much into it, just figured that was a part of yourself you saved for the real deal, when it was right and there wasn't going to be anyone else.

The thing is, he'd felt it for a while now and it was still strange to think this was it. Natasha was his real deal. She was it for him as far as he was concerned.

"Are you sure?" he stammers.

"I want this." She turns enough to kiss him and cup his cheek, murmuring against his lips. "We both know I can't get pregnant, the birth control is just in case. And I'm serious about you, Clint. I don't want anyone else." With that she reaches back and guides him to her entrance, moaning at the play of his skin against hers.

He lines up as she readjusts her weight on her forearms and then he slides in, pausing with a broken breath. It's different. The way she slides around him. Without the added layer. There's something more intimate to it.

He thrusts deep, until his length is swallowed up inside her and his balls rub against her.

"God . . ." he groans, leaning over her to tug at her breasts. Her nipples are hard beneath his fingers, nubs lifting against his thumbs and she nudges back against him to meet his next thrust.

His head dips to the skin of her back, pressing open mouthed kisses against her spine, mouth dragging out silent pleas as he knocks forward, feeling his balls tighten up.

Then his hands fold under her to rub at her clit. "Oh," Natasha gasps, lacing her hand over his when they reach out for the arm rest, steadying his strokes to just the right pressure. Just the right speed.

Her breathing stilts, then shudders, caught up in her lungs.

She reaches back, grappling for his thighs again as he pumps into her, the tension at the base of his spine twisting into some kind of intense pleasure.

Then she's coming, walls tightening around him until he thinks he's going to burst. She thrusts back and stills in a shuddering kind of muscle cease as he rubs her through it.

When she's wrung out he lets his hand fall away, wrapping it around her hips. His own motions grow jerky, erratic, pumping in and out, chasing the feeling up his spine towards the fog in his brain.

Then he pushes over the edge.

It's fast and explosive as he twitches inside her and he'll never get enough. Not of this feeling. Not of her.

His toes uncurl and he pulls out when he finally comes back to his senses, collapsing beside her and pulling her into his lap.

"Holy wow," he mutters against her forehead, lips sliding over sweat.

"Mmm," she mumbles. "That was intense."

"Good intense, or . . ."

"Very good," she says.

He kisses her once more, stilling at the contemplative look on her face.

"You okay?" he asks, raising his arm to tip her chin up.

"I . . .  didn't know it could be like this."

He smiles down at her, something real and genuine and so full of love it almost hurts. "Me neither . . . So, should we talk about this some more or just let it lie? I don't want to spoil anything right now. Your lead."

She runs her finger along his nose, pausing to trace his lips. "I know it felt sudden," she says, "but it's something I thought about for a while. I didn't tell you because I didn't want there to be confusion whenever we slept together. To use one or not. It was easier to just leave things that way well I was figuring myself out. What I wanted."

"You know you're the only one for me too, Tash. You know that right?"

"I do. You show me every day." She swallows. "It felt like a big step."

"And now?"

"I think it was the right step. The right time. It feels right, being like this, with you. I know you worry about the future. About what happens after this year and I still don't know what that will be, but I'm still sure about you, Clint. I'll always be sure about you."

He chuckles a bit because otherwise he thinks he might cry and that would ruin whatever this glorious moment is. "It's your birthday but I feel like you keep giving me things."

She shakes her head. "You've given me plenty. And hopefully there's plenty more where that came from before our weekend's up?"

"I think I can muster," he jokes. "But first, eggs. You'll need your protein if it's gunna be like that all weekend. Now put some clothes on woman. I can't think when you're all naked in front of me."

She slides off his lap and back into his over-sized shirt, forgoing the panties this time and proceeds to tease him for the better part of the morning.

. . .

Clint and Natasha return on Sunday afternoon to a flurry of activity at the diner.

They've been invited for dinner at Bucky's place. Well, everyone kind of has because Mrs. Barnes hasn't got to meet any of these friends Bucky's always with (except Natasha), so with that Clint and Natasha climb the stairs to find something presentable to put on.

When they get to the top of the landing a pair of socks fly out of Steve's room, adding to a pile of rumpled clothes already taking up space in the hall.

"What's going on?" Clint murmurs.

Natasha giggles. "Steve's freaking out."

Clint shuffles towards her door, hesitating before opening it. "Should we . . . do something?"

"Go on," Natasha says, handing him her duffle bag. "I'll be right up."

And that's how they find themselves an hour later, dressed for success, with Steve's outfit approved by Natasha. Tony's even got his shirt tucked in.

He slaps Steve on the arm. "I'm making a good impression for your in-laws, you owe me one."

"As long as he doesn't open his mouth you should be good," Clint mutters to Steve on their way into the garage.

Phil waves from the diner window as Clint reverses across the lot and Steve runs his knuckles over his knees, face the same colour as his slacks.

"It'll be okay," Natasha says to him. "Mrs. Barnes is nice. And don't be intimidated by her wooden spoons. She carries them around for show."

"But what if she doesn't like me?" Steve whispers. Clint flips his eyes up to the rear-view mirror and sighs.

He understands, kind of. Mrs. Barnes was all Bucky had in the world, so if Steve didn't make a good impression, well, where did that leave their relationship? Clint figures he would have felt the same way if Ivan had been someone he had needed to impress. Instead he had just wanted to punch him in the face.

And Natasha had never had to work to impress Phil. She'd just walked into Clint's life and carved a spot out for herself, no assembly required.

But this . . .  maybe this is different.

Natasha strings her fingers through Steve's good hand and squeezes. "Who wouldn't like you, Steve? You're perfect. Plus you've got great hair."

Steve snorts, but the tease makes him smile and relax just a bit and Clint is impressed all over again with how amazing his girlfriend is, and also with how long Tony's gone without cracking some snarky remark.

All in all, a good day.

They stop on the way to Bucky's to pick up a bouquet of flowers. Phil covered the dessert and sent them with pie.

So when they arrive, they all pile out of the van and stand on the front porch of Bucky's place, knocking shoulders while Clint and Tony fight over who gets to push the doorbell. Natasha pushes it because she gets there first.

Steve breathes through his nose like he's about to give birth.

Thirty-three seconds later the door opens and an older woman stands there. She has dark hair, streaked liberally with grey, pretty brown eyes and high cheek bones.

She takes an appraising look at the bunch of them, lips quirking when she spies Natasha. Then she starts chattering in heavy Russian, wiping her hands on her apron as she ushers them all in out of the cold. Bucky stands in the front room, hands in his pockets, looking awkwardly around at them, shrugging as his mother pulls them through the kitchen and into the dining room where the real inspection begins.

Tony gets lopped in first because he ended up at the front of the line and after some quick words between Bucky and his mom with a lot of gesturing at Bucky's metal arm, Mrs. Barnes crushes Tony in a hug and kisses the top of his head, looking particularly glassy-eyed.

Clint thinks Tony still underestimates how much he's changed Bucky's life.

Next she moves on to Steve. The conversation here is longer and Bucky moves to stand beside Steve, catching his good hand and squeezing. (There' been so much squeezing Clint thinks Steve's hand might just drop off). Mrs. Barnes goes silent for a long time and Clint wonders if Steve might pass out because he's stopped breathing. Then she explodes in a flurry of motherly gestures, fussing over his arm, patting his cheek, before declaring him too skinny. Bucky and Steve both let out a breathy laugh and Steve relaxes, the forced tight smile replaced by something much more genuine.

Mrs. Barnes clings to Natasha next, squeezing her cheeks and Clint can tell she's missed the woman. They whisper in fast Russian and Natasha blushes, looking over at him. Clint thinks he hears Bucky snort, but right then Mrs. Barnes walks up to him and gives his side a squeeze. It's all he can do not to yelp as she also declares him too skinny.

And apparently feeding them dinner means she likes them.

For most of the meal Natasha blushes into her soup and when they leave Bucky's place at the end of the night, Clint pulls her aside and asks her about it.

She avoids his eyes for a long time, breathing in the cold night air, fog circling from her nose and mouth.

"What did she say?" Clint prods, brushing his thumb along her jaw.

"Nothing really." She shrugs. "Just that you're a nice boy."

"Well, that is true."

She doesn't rise to the teasing, only glances to him quickly, then away again. "And that you'd make a good husband."

"Oh." Are his cheeks turning red? He can definitely feel the fire in them.

Natasha lets out a breath. "Yeah."

"Well, you know," Clint says quietly, "I'm not about to argue with a woman wielding a wooden spoon."

She caves this time and Clint grins down at the smile that appears on her face, pressing his lips to the corner of her mouth. This is another one of those future things that he's so sure about but that doesn't mean they need to dwell on it right now.

They can worry about it later. They can—

Clint breaks away from Natasha when Tony slams his face against the inside of the van, pressing his lips against the window, mocking them. "I have no clue what Pepper sees in him. At all. The fact that she's even entertaining the idea of . . . that! I just . . . I don't know."

Natasha snorts when she looks over her shoulder at Tony. "We should really start videotaping some of this."

"For blackmail purposes?"

Natasha's grin is impossibly wide. "You're too good to me."

Clint laughs. "This is also true."

. . .

At the end of the month Steve gets the go ahead from the doctor. His collar bone's officially healed and he starts hitting the gym to build his strength back up.

"It feels kind of lopsided," he complains as Clint spots him.

"So you gunna play?" Clint asks, catching the edge of the bar as Steve pushes it back into place.

Steve swings out from under it and shakes his head. "Told coach this morning. I think he cried a bit."

"Good for you, man."

"Yeah, now for the hard part." Steve sits up and rubs his hands over his face. "Telling Phil."

. . .

When the get back to the diner there's a dark blue work van parked out front. For a second Clint thinks it's the plumber again but whatever Tony and Bruce clogged the drains with was fixed last week.

They wander up to the front of the diner, slinging their gym bags over their shoulders, stepping over bundles of corded wire.

"Hey," Steve says when they spy Phil. He's standing just inside the door, watching a man disappear from the shoulders up into the ceiling, dragging a bundle of wire after him.

"What's going on?" Clint asks.

Phil purses his lips. "The till was short two hundred dollars from the weekend."

Steve does a double-take. "What?"

"So you're putting up surveillance cameras?" Clint says.

Phil sighs. "I never worried about it before. There's never that much cash on site, people pay by credit, and I never once worried about the people who worked for me. But now, I don't know what's going on. First Steve's necklace, now this. I just . . ." He smooths his hand along the lines on his forehead. "I don't know."

"Well, damn," Clint mouths.

Steve looks up guiltily. "So this is probably a bad time to tell you I've quit football, huh?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up:
> 
> With the beginning of December comes what Phil fondly calls the season of hell. It starts as a cold that whips through the house and most of the diner staff, but being a bunch of teenagers locked up for most of the day with other sniffly, sneezing, forgetting-to-wash-our-hands teenagers, brings in the worst stomach bug Phil's seen in a long time, and he was working at the school during the Flu of '98.


	8. The Only Stain is Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Phil becomes a Lysol addict. Thor's famous. And Clint and Nat deal with their feelings, full angst.

With the beginning of December comes what Phil fondly calls the season of hell. It starts as a cold that whips through the house and most of the diner staff, but having a bunch of teenagers locked up for most of the day with other sniffing, sneezing, forgetting-to-wash-our-hands teenagers, brings in the worst stomach bug Phil's seen in a long time, and he was working at the school during the Flu of '98.

It takes down Steve first, hard and fast, like a tackle; this proves to be an issue when they have to call Bucky to come help Clint and Tony forcibly carry Steve up to bed after he promptly passes out in the living room after an all-nighter hugging the toilet.

With Steve sweaty, pale, and blowing chunks every half-hour on the dot, Phil starts making thermometer rounds and as soon as Tony's fever spikes, Phil carts him off upstairs and quarantines the room, meaning Clint's sleeping in Natasha's room regardless. What Phil actually says is that Clint can take the couch for a couple days, but they all know that's just a suggestion at this point.

Tony grumbles about his enforced quarantine for about twenty four hours, sending off grumpy emails to Bruce with instructions for some robotics prototype that gets assembled on the kitchen table while Natasha laughs at the angry, red faced emojis that accompany Tony's instructions.

"How do you deal with him?" Clint wonders as the phone buzzes again.

Bruce shrugs. "It's actually a lot more peaceful this way."

The project never gets done though and Clint finds springs and corded up bits of wire on his chair for days.

Meanwhile Bruce is holed up in Clint's bed next to Tony, who finally succumbs to his symptoms enough to stop complaining about being locked up. He starts complaining that the room is spinning and that his feet feel like they're swelling instead, which Bruce corroborates. Phil figures since their both sick they can't possibly make each other any worse, and he's not about to send Bruce home knowing there's no one there to look after him.

Phil spends the whole week disinfecting things like some sort of automated robot; at one point Clint's pretty sure Phil sprays his toast with Lysol (accidently?) so he pushes it aside and with a quick head shake from Natasha, thinks better about his orange juice, too.

Bucky comes to visit near the end of the week because neither Natasha or Clint feels sick (confirmed by Phil's regular temperature check-ups) and brings a weird smelling soup that is apparently borsht and according to Bucky's mother the reason he'll never get sick.

Natasha turns it down based on the fact she's eaten enough borsht for her lifetime, but Clint accepts it as a challenge.

"Ha, if that's true I'll eat that whole thing, in one sitting," he says. "According to Phil we're all gunna get it."

Bucky just raises an eyebrow and goes to put the pot in the fridge beside the casserole Sam made that no one finished because the heavy eaters currently can't stand the sight of solid food. "I'll remember you said this. And you will regret it."

"No, you'll regret exposing yourself to the super-virus. I'm pretty sure we're the epicenter for the whole school. The entire town filters through the diner any given week and there's like six of us in here that go to SHIELD. We're like a fifth of the graduating class all on our own."

Bucky grins. "You think Steve was patient zero?"

"I think if this turns into a zombie outbreak I'm using his blood to make an anti-virus."

"A super-serum to kill the super-virus?"

"I like you're thinking."

Natasha rolls her eyes, dumps her dishes in the sink, and mutters, "Boys," on her way to the garage.

School is uneventful that day, as it has been for the majority of the week without most of their group. The flu's making the rounds of most of the senior year now, spreading slowly through the younger grades. The one highlight is when Thor pukes spectacularly during the lunch time rehearsal of The Taming of the Shrew which pretty much makes people sick just by association.

It's literally like a vomit train.

Natasha claps her hands over her ears, attempting to drown out the sea of retching noises, as Clint and Bucky stand on their chairs for a better view of the stage. "Really?" she groans.

"That got serious distance," Bucky says, oblivious to the gross factor.

Clint nods. "Bet he regrets eating all those Poptarts now. Oh, god, is it purple?"

"You two are ridiculous," Natasha mutters, picking at her sandwich, arm folded across her lap, and as he settles back in his chair, Clint thinks that maybe her eyes are a little glassy and maybe she's looking a little green.

Maybe she's . . . aw, hell.

"Hey, Tash," he says, waiting for her to look at him again. She does, fleetingly, like her eye lids are too heavy to bother. "You don't look so well."

The line between her eyes deepens and she stands to dump her lunch in the trash, uneaten. "No, shut up. I'm fine. I feel _fine_."

"Tash—"

"Don't. I'm not getting sick. I don't have time. I have essays to write and university applications to finish before the month is over. I can't deal with your super-virus-flu or whatever this contagion is."

She waves her hand at the cafeteria and then at him and Clint stands to reach for her because he thinks she's shaking.

Bucky looks between them both seriously. "Eat the borsht."

"Bucky, I swear to God," Natasha threatens before turning to Clint as he gingerly attempts to feel her forehead. She knocks his hand away. "Stop it. I'm _fine_. And stop breathing on me. You're going to _make_ me sick."

"I'm not sick yet."

"Yet? You're sleeping on the couch then."

"Natasha, wait—"

She stalks away, huffy and irritable and maybe just a little more flushed than usual.

"Her cheeks look red to you?" Clint asks Bucky as he plops back down in his seat.

Bucky nods, chewing on the core of an apple. "She should eat the borsht."

"She's going to murder you if you keep saying that."

He smiles, thin and wiry, with a humour that Clint doesn't quite understand yet. "She can try."

When the end of the day finally rolls around (things drag when there's no one to cause distractions in class) Clint knows his instincts are spot on. He finds Natasha with her head slumped against her locker after school, delirious to the end of the day rush as she's jostled back and forth in the crowd. Her face is decidedly pale and when he touches her she flinches with the kind of achy tremors that only come from this kind of flu-bug.

Luckily Natasha isn't one for projectile vomiting like the rest of the house, but the weird full-body weakness hits her with a vengeance and by the time Clint drops Bucky off and gets her home she can barely climb out of the van on her own.

She ends up with her arm tossed over Clint's shoulder and after some maneuvering of their backpacks, he gets her inside.

Phil spies them coming down the hall and makes a face of pure horror. It disappears so fast that Clint wishes he'd snapped a picture. At some point, maybe months from now, it would be funny. Right now though, Natasha's quickly becoming dead weight against him.

"Oh, no," Phil sighs as he nears them. "I thought you two might have managed to escape it."

Clint hefts Natasha closer to his side, readjusting his hand at her waist. "Yeah, well, guess not. Wait until you hear what Thor did today."

"Nick's already sent me a link. Apparently one of the students captured it on their phone. It's going viral."

"Gross," Natasha moans, her head lolling against Clint's shoulder.

Clint chuckles. "But kind of awesome. Maybe this'll be his big break. You think it was Darcy? She's always got her phone out."

Phil shrugs at him and then proceeds to thread his arm around Natasha's other side and together they get her up to the attic.

Clint's given explicit instructions that he is only to be in the attic to swap out Natasha's water and the plate of saltines she's been allowed when Phil figures she's not going to start puking everywhere.

For two days Clint dumps the untouched glass in the bathroom sink and fills it up with fresh water; he snags one of the uneaten crackers off the plate and stuffs it in his mouth, hacking on the dry crumbs for a moment.

"You know, you have to eat," he tells her, pressing his lips to her forehead. She's clammy the way people are after they finish exercising.

"You'll get sick," she mumbles, though he could be making it up because the words are so weak he's not even sure her lips actually open.

He tries coaxing her a bit more and at one point she looks straight at him, eyes sunken and distant, then they roll straight back in her head and it's the freakiest thing Clint's ever seen. After his initial two seconds of panic he flies down the stairs, screeching for Phil who appears several seconds later.

When Phil's confident that she is in fact still breathing despite Clint's protests otherwise, he feels her forehead and runs the back of his hand along the side of her face.

"She's dehydrated," he says, squeezing the skin on the back of her hand; he shifts on her bedside, untangling the comforter from around her legs. "Come on. Help me get her in the van."

One day and a couple rounds of IV fluids later, Natasha's released to recover at home.

And because they (as Tony likes to calls it) swap spit so frequently, Clint comes down with the super-flu two days later.

By then some of the others have started to recover and Phil looks less like he's drowning in germs and Bucky is an official Sunnyside-Up employee because (as Phil explains) there was literally no one else who could work. Bucky wears the staff shirt with pride and a surprising amount of flair (his dark locks pulled back in a chic ponytail).

In the end Phil and Bucky are the only ones that survive and when he's recovered enough Clint ends up eating a whole pot of borsht like a champ, only to spend the next day in the bathroom as well. He's never seen so many colours at once and is pretty sure some of them are not of this world. Natasha and Bucky snicker about it for a while, before taking pity on him.

Natasha brings him ginger tea, made from real ginger and he knows she loves him because she braved the snow (and Tony's driving) to go all the way to the grocery store for a root.

"So, what did we learn?" she asks, climbing onto her bed to sit beside him.

"Russian's are crazy," Clint groans, clutching his stomach.

"And what else?"

"They make crazy food."

Natasha chuckles, short and sweet. "And just because you have your manly pride to uphold doesn't mean you have to do every stupid thing that comes out of your mouth."

"Yeah, okay," Clint grumbles. He sips his tea and hugs his stomach for most of the day, but Natasha sits beside him and strokes her nails through his hair which makes him pleasantly sleepy.

"Your brother was here," she murmurs at one point after he's been in and out of a restless sleep.

Clint perks up just as he's on the precipice again, and maybe that was her intention.

"Barney?"

"He came by a few times. Phil told him you were down with the flu. I talked to him the last time."

"Did he say anything?"

She shrugs. "Hopes you get better." And after a beat. "You know, he really should quit smoking."

"Noticed that too, huh?"

"I always knew he smoked."

"Really?" Clint twists to look at her. "I didn't. Not until he lit up in front of me."

Natasha purses her lips, avoiding looking straight at him. "I could smell it on you after you'd been with him."

"What . . . really?"

She nods, humming, her fingers losing their rhythm against his temple. "Ivan smoked," she says. "It makes me think of him. The smell. Please don't pick up that habit from your brother."

Clint manages to lift his head enough to look her in the eye. "That is one stupid thing you don't have to worry about me doing."

She nods with a small smile, resuming the idle stroking and Clint figures it's safe to close his eyes.

. . .

Barney hangs around after he hears about how sick Clint's been.

He takes up his spot on the couch again and helps with the supper dishes in Clint's absence.

Natasha makes a point of talking to him because the guys are still unwilling to prompt conversation. It's idle conversation though, full of meaningless details that neither of them will care to remember and judging by what she's already learned of Barney, half of it isn't true. So he's lying to her.

In part she gets it. She's not his family. This isn't his home. It took her months to open up to Clint, and even then it was stilted and really, most of it was just the fact that Clint understood, making assumptions when she couldn't talk about things.

Barney deserves that same understanding. The same opportunity to share when he's ready.

So Natasha dries the dishes while he washes and she can feel Steve and Bucky hovering in the background. To prevent herself from turning around and pointedly glaring at them, she focuses her energy on studying Barney. The way he moves. The sway to his motion. It's different than Clint. Tighter. More wound up. Like it's forced.

She knows what that's like too. When every step is taken with careful measure because someone else is there watching you and you're trying your best not to screw it up.

She gives Barney the benefit of the doubt for all of that, despite how many times he's already hurt Clint, because somewhere inside he still wants his brother around. Still craves that connection. So what else can she do but try to make it work?

. . .

Natasha wakes the next morning not with the sun, but just shortly after it, to the sound of her phone buzzing on the night table.

Clint shifts beside her but doesn't wake up, still on the mend after his bought of food poisoning.

She swipes her finger across the screen to find a series of texts from Bucky. Slipping into a pair of socks, she pads downstairs in her pajamas and out to the garage.

She pulls the door open to find Bucky. He shrugs an apology before he wraps his arm around her shoulders and presses a quick kiss to her cheek. "Sorry, I texted Steve first. No reply."

"It's okay. He's still a bit groggy. It hit him hard. He'll probably sleep till noon and then be fine."

Bucky nods. "You're looking better."

"Feel better. Clint took good care of me. Right up until the point when he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore."

"Yeah, well—"

Natasha stops, turning in the direction of Bucky's stare. There's a light on in Phil's office, but she was pretty sure his door was still closed when she came down. Even Phil likes to sleep in on a Sunday every now and then.

She crosses her arms and tip toes towards the light.

When she peeks around the corner her instinct is to freeze. Instead she steps into the doorway. "You shouldn't be in here."

Barney looks up from Phil's desk, alarmed, before plastering on an all too friendly smile. He wanders towards her, like this is normal for them, leaning against the doorframe across from her. "Where's Clint," he asks, looking past her.

"He's asleep. What were you doing?"

"Just . . . lost my way," Barney says. A smooth lie. "Still do that sometimes. Big place. Lot's a hidey holes. Must'a took a wrong turn at one of the kitchens. You know there's like three fridges in this place."

He reaches out for Natasha's hand, to move it from where she's blocked him in, but Bucky steps out of the shadows, and beats him to it, metal hand closing around Barney's wrist.

For a moment the alarm returns, accompanied by something that looks closer to anger. The kind of anger that makes people unreasonable. The kind of anger Ivan had when he was drunk. It passes though as another smile stretches across Barney's face. She's quickly learning to read these. And they're not all the same.

"Ain't that a neat trick," Barney says, rotating his wrist out of Bucky's grip. He knocks twice on the arm, listening to the ping the metal makes, lips stretching back over his teeth. "Guess they don't need a guard dog with you around, huh?"

Then he disappears, slipping between them and making himself scare in the living room again.

Natasha has half a mind to follow him and demand answers, but she knows enough that she'll never get them from Barney. Not straight from his mouth anyhow.

She steps into Phil's office then. "What was he looking for?" she muses, running her hands along the files on Phil's desk.

Bucky follows her. "He's trouble, Natasha. That is what he's looking for. That is what he'll find." Natasha looks up to see his face tighten, eyes dark beneath his hair. There's a day's stubble on his jaw and it makes him look older. The ghosts more apparent on his flesh. The scars and memories of their past creeping up on them. "Are you going to tell Clint?"

"What, that his brother was snooping around?" she scoffs, turning away for another inspection. There's folders on the desk. Insurance information and claims. Phil's in the process of adding Natasha's information to the file. She knows this. Phil spoke to her about it before he went ahead. There's other files, too. They look like they might be some sort of will, but Natasha doesn't want to open it so she just looks at Bucky and shakes her head, "No, I'm not."

"Natalia!"

She whirls back around fully, arms crossed. "Don't Natalia me, James! We don't know anything. I don't want—"

"What?"

"I don't need Clint to worry. He does enough of that already. With Barney. I don't need to add to that?"

"What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid."

"Then you should tell him."

"No."

"Nat—"

"No, stop," she snaps, feeling the anger bubble and deflate in the same instance. "I don't want to lose him, okay. I'll push him away."

Bucky just shakes his head at her.

"What if it was Steve?" she asks. "And you knew it would hurt him?"

"I'd still tell him the truth," Bucky replies on a whisper. There's less intensity to his words, more sympathy.

Natasha simply tightens her arms across her chest. "Yeah, well, you were always the braver one."

"That's not true."

She tips her chin up, sharp, determined. And final. "He loves his brother, despite everything. I won't take that from him."

Before Bucky can open his mouth a shadow fills the door again and Natasha jumps before realizing it's Steve. He rubs his eyes and blinks blurrily at them before attempting to flatten his bed-head.

"Everything okay in here?" he asks. "I heard . . .  yelling?"

"Fine," Natasha says, brushing by Bucky on her way out of the office.

"Natalia!" Bucky tries again.

"Stop," she hisses, first in English, then in Russian, telling him to leave it be. She escapes to the basement, to the sparring mats and Steve's punching bag, hoping to diffuse some of her leftover anger.

. . .

When Clint's finally recovered he's promptly tossed back into work because Tony's fed up with taking the trash out, especially now that there's snow.

Clint doesn't mind it so much. He likes the snow. And the cold. And the weather's really not even that bad yet. He gets by with just tossing his sweater on as he starts hauling garbage to the curb.

"Need a hand with that?" Barney asks, grabbing a couple bags and following Clint out to the road.

Clint gives him a nod. Barney's been gone for a few days again and there hasn't really been an opportunity to talk to him much. "Yeah, thanks."

A couple of old regulars pass by them on their way into the diner and Clint smiles when they wave.

Barney chuckles under his breath, the fog eclipsing his face. "Hey, remember that time we swindled that old man out of his change purse and it was stacked with hundreds?"

"Yeah, we ate well after that." Clint laughs at the memory, at the euphoria eight year old him had at the sight of so much money, but it quickly turns hollow. He watches Barney light up a cigarette, puffing his words.

"Look, I've been talking to some people and they gave me this tip—"

Clint cuts him off. "So that's what you're doing again?"

Barney shrugs, sucking in a lungful of smoke. "Sometimes. Not all the time." He glares at the gravel drive, stomped down with snow and dirt. "How'd you think I was getting by?"

Clint sighs, looking out past Barney, towards the trees. "Guess I just hoped it was something else. Stupid me, huh?" He curls his fingers and they feel a bit numb. Whether it's from the cold or not he doesn't know.

"Look," Barney tries again. "It's not a big job. A quick in and out thing. And I could really use someone to watch my six. Just a look-out. Like old times. I'll even give you a cut."

"No," Clint answers immediately.

"No?"

"I'm not that person anymore."

Barney flicks the cigarette into the snow. "What person?"

"The guy who stole. Who took what didn't belong to him."

"Clint, we we're just kids."

"I know. But I know better now."

Barney just stares at him. "These people have changed you. That girl. That man you think is your father. Captain Precious and Lord-Mouthpiece."

Clint's fingers curl again. "Don't talk about them, Barn."

"No, they made you forget who you are. You're a Barton, Clint. Built yourself up from nothing. Both of us. We did know better. The both of us. But we took what we wanted because that's who we are."

Clint shakes his head. "I did what I had to do to survive. That's all. I don't need to do that anymore."

"Well bully for you. Glad you found your nice little piece of suburbia."

"I wasn't the one who followed Trickshot down that alley," Clint says. "I asked you to come back. I begged you."

Barney scowls at him and it's a look that tears him up. "Well, I guess we both made our beds. Time to lie in them, huh? Just don't forget where you come from. They can dress you up and put a pretty girl on your arm, but if anyone digs a little deeper they'll find out where you come from. You're just a circus freak, like me, Clint. And nobody wants those folk around for long. That's why we keep on moving, brother. You've been good for a laugh. A pet project of Phil's. Let's dress up the carnie. Make him walk and talk. Behave like a real boy. They'll get sick of you one day. Then you'll remember who you really are."

Barney pulls another cigarette from his pocket, then turns on his heel, marching down the driveway, away from the diner and towards town.

Clint stalks back to the garage, intent on flinging the rest of the garbage out the door and leaving it for later. He can feel the angry energy thrumming in his blood, making his arms shakes.

When he walks around the corner he can hear voices and he staggers to a stop behind the van, watching through the rear windshield as Bucky's metal hand wraps around Natasha's shoulder. She shivers, crossing her arms and turning away. Bucky's dark eyes furrow between sheets of hair and he replaces his metal hand with his other one, flesh against flesh. "Natalia," he calls her and it's old and warm. The words that follow are garbled and thick, in their mother tongue and it picks up. Pleading somehow.

She looks up at Bucky then, eyes pinched, but shallow. She shakes her head, like she's trying to shake him off and Clint slips out from behind the car.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

Natasha masks her surprise by turning inward, arms crossed. "Nothing," she says.

"Why's he speaking in Russian?" Clint says and Natasha avoids his gaze long enough for him to know that it was about him. "You're hiding something. Both of you."

"Clint—"

"We promised never to lie to each other," he says slowly, voice hard.

"I haven't lied to you about anything," she says. Her gaze is steely when it finally reaches his.

"Then why are you trying to hide something now?" he asks, reaching out for her. She softens into his touch, a warm sigh spreading through her as she takes his hand.

"Your brother is a bad man," Bucky says suddenly, and it's not like Clint didn't expect him to talk, it's just that usually Natasha talks for both of them. After all the years they have their own code, their own secret language communicated it nods and shrugs. But the fact that he's talking now is enough to get Clint to listen.

"Natasha didn't want to talk to you because she's afraid you'll pull away from her if you think she's trying to come between you two, but I see the way he watches the people in your family when he thinks no one else does. It's the same way Ivan used to watch her. Like a mark. Like there's something to be taken.

"I may not be blood, but Natasha is as good as my sister and I will not watch as one monster is replaced by another. Not when she risked so much to escape the first."

"You think I want that?" Clint asks after a minute. Bucky doesn't answer, just stares in that stoic way of his and it dawns on him then that maybe Bucky wasn't just warning her about Barney, but about him too, because if he's too clouded to think straight, then maybe Bucky's warning would make sense. And that's why Natasha looked so angry. "You think you have to protect her from me?" Clint says, unable to mask the hurt in his voice.

"I hoped I wouldn't have to," Bucky answers finally.

"You don't. I may not be what she deserves, but I've got my head screwed on straight."

Natasha sucks in a breath and squeezes his fingers. "Clint, don’t say that. Don't—"

"What? Say that I'm not good enough for you? We said we wouldn't lie."

He lets her go and storms out of the garage, onto the path behind the house, the snow beaten flat by someone's heavy boots.

He can still feel the tremble in his blood and his fists ball again. It's instinct and fear and anger. Stupid Barney coming here and dragging up his stupid past. All the rotten things he's done. All the things he thought long buried.

He's not that kid anymore.

At least, he thought he wasn't.

Did that just get buried under another mask? The Amazing Hawkeye. Just another performance. New crowd. Sell the same old story?

There are footsteps behind him in an instant.

"Why are you being like this?" Natasha demands.

"I'm the way I always am!" he shouts back without looking at her. He just keeps walking.

"No, Barney's gotten inside your head. Made you think stupid things."

"He's just reminded me who I am," he says, throwing his hands up and turning around. "What I have to offer you. Which is nothing. Because I'm nothing."

"Stop it!"

"Go then, Natasha. You can't fix this. This is me. I'm just this."

"Stop," she says, her tone darker.

"What's the point?"

"This!" she says, stepping forward to grab his wrist. She slams his hand against her chest, against her heart. It thuds wildly beneath his palm, enough that he can feel it through her sweater. There are wet tracks down her face when she looks up at him. "This is who you are, Clint. You kept it beating. You're a good person and I don't care where you came from or what you had to do to get here. And don't you dare tell me to go, Clint Barton, unless you really mean it." Her jaw trembles from the cold as she gets the words out and the rage inside Clint deflates.

He pulls her into his arms then, clinging to reality. To this. What he knows right now.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I . . . I didn't mean it. I'm an idiot." She shivers again and he holds her tighter.

She turns her head and kisses the hand that he cups her cheek with, brushing away the cold tracks of water against her face. "This is true," she whispers. "How you feel right now. You. Me. We're real. It's not nothing."

"I know." It's hard to swallow.

"And just for the record, I don't need Bucky to protect me. From you or Barney or anyone. I can do that myself."

. . .

Barney comes back the next day and it's another one of these apologies that Clint just swallows because he feels like he owes him for all the shit he got and Barney didn't.

They sit on the porch and talk things through. Again.

"You still going to run that job?" Clint asks.

"I don't know."

"Maybe . . . maybe I could ask Phil if you could work here. It's not much, but it's something."

Barney smirks. "Thanks, Clint, but I've stepped on enough toes and ruffled enough feathers. I'm just gunna have to go out and get myself a real job. I'm gunna take off for a few days, tie up some loose ends with people I'd rather not owe favours to and then I'll come back. Fresh start."

"You mean it?"

"Yeah, gotta clean up my act sometime. Can't be bumming off my little brother forever." Barney fingers the pack of matches in his hand, then lights up a cigarette.

Clint sighs. "You know those things will kill you right?"

"Eh, not anytime soon." Barney finishes the smoke and tosses it into the snow, the butt melting through to the ground. He flicks another match against the porch railing and Clint watches the fire burn into the front of another cigarette, the edges peeling back under the heat of flame.

Later that day, after he's showered and changed (because after sitting through Barney's chain smoking he smells like hell) Clint finds Natasha in the basement, the soft sigh of classical music bleeding out as she twists herself across the floor of her studio.

Clint's slow in his approach, taking in every detail of what has quickly become one of his new favourite things—her dancing.

Watching her is visceral, the length of her limbs, the twist of muscle and play of skin as she twists, leg reaching around her back as her arms loop above her head. It's alluring to say the least, though Clint calls it all manner of other things in his head. There's beauty in it, oh yes. And a required amount of grace. But it's the strength that really gets him. The fine tuning work of the corded muscle beneath her skin. The quiet stillness of joints locked as one in a never-ending show of speed and stature. There are heavy lines that move as well, holding her body in angles and shapes, familiar now that he's watched enough. There's moves that leave her smiling and breathless as she turns, head whipping back to the same spot in the mirror after each rotation, and there's the moves that leave her brows threaded and deep puffs of breath billowing from her lungs.

Clint never thought so much of dance in his life, but then again, Natasha makes him think a whole lot more about things he never really cared for.

He stops behind her, their body's matching in the mirror as he lines up and runs his fingers down the length of her arm, held out around her body like a shield, something for him to inspect as his fingers travel the lines of veins all the way down to the back of her hand where they ripple from exertion.

He wants to tell her all manner of things: that she's beautiful. That she's probably the best dancer he's ever seen (and he saw some pretty wicked talent in the circus). But instead he just breathes and memorizes the weightless feeling of the moment. He likes collecting these little moments, like spun glass, hanging from some dusted off portion of his brain. Memories on wire. Twisting and twirling as easily as Natasha had.

Their fingers thread together and her back bumps against his chest as she lets herself fall against him, head tilted to see the same thing he does in the mirror. He wonders if she thinks they match as well as he does. Or if she just sees a beautiful girl with a guy who has no clue what the hell he's doing with his life.

He pushes that thought away because it never leads anywhere productive and he's feeling slightly wistful right now, holding her this close, a steady stream of violins heavy in the air. It's charged the atmosphere around them and he doesn't want to break it with something so serious. Not everything between them needs to be that serious all the time anyway. It has been, for a while, because there always seems to be decisions that require heavy thought, but he has to admit it's nice to just appreciate the little things: the way she feels against him, the way she looks, hair falling from her ponytail to string around her face, neck glistening with sweat, eyes darting, gaze heavy. It's nice to pretend that this is all he needs to focus on and that his life only has to consist of moments with Natasha.

"Do you think you would have wanted to dance some day?" Clint asks her as the song dies.

"Professionally?"

He nods.

"Maybe when I was little, watching the Russian ballet. It may have been one of those dreams of a little orphan girl." She shrugs wistfully.

"Not anymore?"

She laughs. "I'm not built to be a dancer."

"What do you mean!? You're fantastic."

"I mean I don't have the body type. My boobs are too big and I have too much hip. Those dancers are lithe and slim."

Clint squeezes her around the waist. "I like your body type."

A throaty chuckle. "I know you do, it just doesn't suit a dancer. The rail thin, flat-chested thing didn't really work out for me after puberty." She smiles despite herself. "But I still like to dance."

"Yeah, you any good at teaching?"

"Why, Barton? You looking for lessons?" she teases.

Clint shifts up on his toes, holding his arms out. "Maybe I am."

"Well then," she smiles at him. "You might just be in luck." Then she snaps her hand against his thigh and orders him to bend his knees.

Apparently ballet is not for the weak.

. . .

Clint's so exhausted by the end of the night that he never makes it up to Natasha's room, instead collapses on his own bed, half hanging off of it and he knows he'll have cricks in places you don't want cricks come morning, but right now he's too tired to care.

Tony stares at him for a minute then shrugs and turns out the light.

Clint's out before he can even roll over.

It's a strange beeping that eventually brings him out of sleep hours later and his first instinct is to throw his pillow at the alarm clock. When that doesn't resolve it he pokes his head up and grunts out, "Tony! C'mon, man."

The lump in the bed across from his barely stirs.

"Stark! The hell you got going off over there, huh?"

Tony bolts upright then, hair on end, hands fisting in the sheets. "S'not me," he says, scrambling out of bed and as the sound finally starts to pierce his brain, Clint recognizes it. The fire alarm.

"Smell that?" Tony says, facing the closed bedroom door

Clint nods. Smoke.


	9. The Fire in your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where things burn down (both literally and figuratively).

_Beep. Beep. Beeeeep!_

Clint shakes his head, attempting to jar the piercing sound from behind his eyes where it stings, sharp and fast. _Guess this is why people don't sleep through fire alarms_ , he muses.

Right, fire alarm. Focus.

He stuffs his arms into his sweatshirt as Tony moves across the room, hesitating for a moment before going for the door knob. At the last second his hand swerves and he places it against the back of the door, feeling.

"Hot?" Clint asks, poking his head through the hood of his sweatshirt and pulling it down around his hips.

Tony shakes his head, ripping the door open and the sound intensifies into something that makes Clint's teeth clench. There are ripples of grey smoke starting to furl up the stairs, clinging to the walls and ceiling like arthritic fingers.

He should get down. On his knees. Grab Tony and get the hell out.

But his first instinct is Natasha and he rips up the stairs to the attic, taking them three at a time, using his hands to propel himself forward. Tony's behind him, going for the bathroom and then the closet as Clint fumbles in the bed. It's still sleep warm, but empty.

"She's not here," Clint says, turning in circles.

"Steve?" Tony says next, and they both hurtle back down the stairs. Steve's room is empty, but his bed's made, so maybe he never made it up to bed yet, but Phil's gone too so maybe they already got out. As they descend the stairs the air becomes acrid and Clint's swallowing against the urge to vomit.

He hunches over, the muscles in his back groaning as he feels along the railings and then the wall of the hallway.

"Smokes getting thicker," Tony says, pulling his collar over his nose and mouth.

"It's coming from the diner." Clint nods his head in that general direction. Over the shrill beep of the alarm he can hear a whoosh of energy that most likely means there are flames beyond the door that connects the house to the diner.

Tony approaches, feeling with his hands again. He recoils almost instantly, looking panicked, but his hand hovers by the knob. "Where the hell is everyone?"

"Dude, don't open it," Clint says. "Let's just go through the back." As if cementing that idea something explodes in the diner, sounding like glass shattering, and the sound makes them stagger back.

The screen door is already open when they double back through the kitchen and Clint sure as hell hopes it was Natasha and them who left it open.

They disappear through the door and around the side of the house, beating a sprinters pace against the trodden snow.

"Holy shit!" Clint says, his sprint ending on a gravel spin as he skids to a halt, Tony slamming into his back, tight muscle against muscle. The front of the diner is lit up like Christmas.

"What the hell?" Tony echoes. In his eyes Clint can see the flames dance, reflected off awe and fear which bleed to something more akin to terror as they wait in those seconds. Just wait and breathe.

Then everything comes rushing back into stark, frigid clarity, the heat of the diner making the snow feel that much colder. In an instant of foggy ice breath, Clint sees Steve comes barreling out of the garage and his heart gives a little jolt of relief. He cranes his neck to see if Natasha or Phil are with him.

"Thank God," Steve says, grabbing their shoulders. "You two okay? I couldn't find anyone." He scans quickly. "Natasha and Phil with you?"

Clint shakes his head and his heart stutters up into his throat. Panicking.

"Couldn't find them," Steve wheezes. "Smoke's so heavy in there."

"Call 911," Clint says suddenly because he knows they're still inside and Tony's dialing because of course he thought to bring his phone.

There's heavy, beating footsteps then, coming from behind them, and Clint spins in time to see Sam run up.

"Jesus Christ!" he says, arms flailing as he stutters to a halt, lips drawn back over his teeth. "Shit!" He runs his hands over Clint's shoulders before tapping both Steve and Tony, making sure they're real. That they're okay. "Saw the flames from my house," he huffs. "Everyone get out okay?"

"Not Phil and Natasha. We haven't seen them yet. Where the hell are they?" Clint demands, spinning back on his heel. His head spins just as fast, vison blurring into red.

"She was right behind me when we came up to bed," Tony insists, still on the call with the dispatcher. "I swear."

"Maybe she got up again," Steve says.

Sam inhales, hands on his hips, hunched over just a bit, to catch his breath. "And Phil?"

"I heard someone in the kitchen. I was working on a paper," Steve says, wringing his hands together. "Could have been either of them."

"Shit!" Clint says, tearing off into the garage because he's one hundred percent certain that neither Natasha or Phil is going to make it out on their own if they haven't yet. And he's not about to stand here and wait for the fire trucks. He's knows he's supposed to. He knows those are the rules. You don't go back into a fire. You don't go back for anything. But Natasha's his everything. If he loses her . . . it won't matter that he made it out. He digs his heels into the ground, running harder.

"Clint, no!"

He feels Sam's hand wrap around his shoulder, squeezing down on his collar bone, and does his best to shrug it off. To his surprise Sam doesn't actually try to stop him though, just pushes him behind him as they rush back into the diner through the garage door.

Inside the flames have spread, starting to lick up the walls, and everything feels like the inside of an oven, scorching at his skin with every step.

The smoke is hot and thick and immediately he's on his knees, scrambling his way forward, blinded by the tears that spring up to combat the sting in his eyes.

He moves with his shoulders, pushing at stray furniture. He can feels bits of glass nick his skin where he drags his hands but nothing hurts more than the thought that they might not find them.

They do though; Sam makes sure of it. They find Phil first, crouched down in the back room, hacking into what looks to be a dishrag.

"There was someone," he wheezes against Clint's ear. "Your brothers?"

"Everyone's out," Clint shouts over the roar of the flame.

Phil nods and sways forward into Sam.

"Hit his head," Sam cries as Phil pitches again. There's a line of blood dripping down the side of his face. "Something probably exploded."

Together they manoeuver Phil back into the hallway, into the thick of the heat and smoke. Clint cranes his neck for a sign of Natasha. She's here. He knows it; he can feel it in his gut.

With a kick, Sam knocks the swinging door open, the one that runs between the back room and the front of the diner and for a long moment the smoke battles in the doorway, coming from both sides.

And that's when Clint sees her, sprawled out on the floor of the diner, red hair fanned out and crawling like flames. "Jesus!" he hisses, despite the burn in his lungs.

"Get Phil out," Sam says, catching Clint before he can surge forward after Natasha. "I'll get her." He gives Clint one more push. "Go!"

With a nod, Clint helps Phil stagger to his feet, crouching with his arms strung over his shoulders. He gets him as far as the garage and then Steve's there, taking over as Phil gasps his first breaths of clean air.

"M'okay," he says as Steve lowers him to the ground beyond the danger, though he's wheezing and shaking something fierce.

Clint can hear sirens not far off and the neighbours have started to assemble along the street in all manner of sleepwear.

Phil sways, woozy with smoke, but his eyes still scan. "Everyone's here?" He coughs and shakes his head. "But I swore I saw one of you in the kitchen. That's why I went back." He hacks again and then the red lights of an ambulance fill the night and paramedics and firefighters descend.

"We all got out," Steve tells him. "Except—" He looks up at Clint.

At that moment Sam appears against the smoky backdrop of the garage, Natasha clutched against his chest and when he lays her on the ground she splutters like a swimmer coming out of the sea after diving too deep.

Clint races to her side, kneeling by her head, hands reaching for her own. She hacks on smoke until the paramedics nudge him out of the way and shove an oxygen mask over her face and then he's being ushered into his own ambulance with words like _smoke inhalation_ and _poisoning_ being tossed around. Apparently he needs to have a doctor stare down his throat to make sure he's alright. He doesn't care though because Natasha's headed the same way and that's where he wants to be right now.

. . .

The night at the hospital erupts in flashes of red light and muffled voices. Everything still sounds like it's being screamed over the roar of flames and Clint rubs his hands over his ears trying to right the sound as the nurses poke and prod at his arms and a resident stuffs a tongue depressor down his throat.

He wiggles away from their ministrations, flustered and annoyed, asking about everyone else, but they won't say anything and it makes him panic. His heartrate spikes and the doctor enters looking mildly concerned, brows stitching together behind his glasses.

There's a flurry of movement. A nurse pulls a syringe and feeds it into his IV line.

The heartrate monitor calms and he's suddenly very sleepy.

"No!" Clint growls, reaching for the back of his hand.

He never makes it though. His head flops down against the pillow as a nurse sits by his bedside with a pair of tweezers and a pan. She picks glass out of his skin, one aching piece at a time.

The last thing he hears is the tinkle of glass against metal before his eyes flutter closed.

When he wakes he has a throbbing headache behind his eyes and his skin feels sooty, like he's spent all night dancing around a campfire, but his mind is clearer and the muffled sounds have disappeared.

He sits up in bed, finding his hands wrapped in warm gauze.

As he twists around, the heartrate monitor disconnects, letting out a shrill beep, and a nurse slips into the room to investigate.

"How do you feel?" she asks, reconnecting the monitor.

"Fine. What's the diagnoses? Am I good to go?" he asks.

"The doctor would like you to stay until morning. He'll be back to reassess—"

"Look, I just want to see my girlfriend. So either I refuse care and leave or you can disconnect me so I can go see her and then I'll climb back into bed like a good patient."

The nurse cocks an eyebrow at him, but her lips curl up at the edge, just a smidge.

"Fine. But you take the IV pole with you. They're a pain to put in."

"Deal."

Clint waits while the nurses disconnects the wires and hands him the rolling pole.

"Room D2," she says to him before he can ask.

Clint nods his thanks before slipping out of the room and down the hall. God he hates hospitals.

Natasha's room is mostly dark when he finds her and the best he figures is that she's been sleeping.

Her eyes open, glassy against the darkness as soon as he reaches her bed, probably alerted by the squeaky wheels on his stupid IV pole, and he suspects she's been drifting in and out of sleep. Her hand snakes out of the sheets, the one not connected to her IV, and yanks on the string by the wall, triggering the light over her bed.

She blinks a few times, adjusting, and when her eyes find his this time she lets out a shaky breath and it's all he can do not to climb in bed and drape himself over top of her, squeezing until her breath becomes his own.

"Hey, pretty girl," he says, letting his fingers dance against her cheek. She leans into his touch and he smiles around a strangled breath, swallowing down what threatens to be tears. "We really need to stop meeting like this."

She laughs, and knowing she can hear the emotion in his voice, reaches her hand up to wrap around his.

"Clint," she croaks and he has half a mind to tell her not to talk, to save her energy for when she doesn't feel so shitty, but it's good to hear her voice despite the crackle in it so he smiles again and reaches his hand out to brush her hair away from her face. It's tacky from the smoke and leaves grey residue against his skin but he doesn't care. They're both grimy and dirty and smell like the oven when Phil's tried to bake, but they're alive. Alive. "Thought you were still inside," she says. She coughs then and it shakes her entire chest, rattling deep inside. "Saw you . . ."

"I wasn't in the kitchen, Tash. It wasn't me. Maybe Steve?"

She shakes her head, eyes getting droopy with sleep again. She fights it though, something intense in the way she's certain it was him. He runs his hand along her forehead and leans over to kiss her.

"Sleep," he whispers against her lips. "I'll be here when you wake up."

Natasha manages a nod before her eyelids fluttered closed. A resident swings by at one point, does an assessment, though he won't tell Clint anything. The nurses aren't any more forthcoming, but they pat his shoulder and assure him that they're taking good care of her. Eventually Clint drops into the chair by her bed and watches her monitor dip and fall, the rhythm of her heartbeat keeping his attention until Tony and Steve appear in the doorway.

"All cleared?" he asks them, standing and stretching out his muscles. The chairs in this place really are terrible.

Tony nods with a flicking gesture to his IV pole. "Looks like you aren't though."

"Doctor's being thorough," he says, rolling his eyes.

Steve steps into the room, light on his feet. "Is she okay?" he asks. "She was in there a really long time."

Clint's heart kicks up into his throat at that thought and he has to swallow down the panic in his gut. "She's confused . . .  I think. But I guess that's normal. Maybe? The doctor wouldn't talk to me because I'm not technically family. Which is bullshit."

Steve sighs. "Well, on that note, Phil's up. We were going to pop in and see him. You wanna come?"

Clint nods, squeezing Natasha's hand before slipping out the door after them.

When they find Phil his head is patched up with those little stitches that look like tape and, except for the bags beneath his eyes, he looks better than expected. The first thing he does when he sees them is crush them in a hug. Tony makes a strangled groaning noise, but as soon as he hears the choked sob that escapes Phil he stops and puts his arms around him.

Clint ends up tangled in the middle and they spend an extra minute unraveling themselves without disturbing his IV line which somehow ended up around Steve's waist. God he really hates this thing.

Phil clears his throat. "Glad you boys are okay. I was so worried." He looks up then. "How's Natasha?"

Clint shrugs. "They won't tell me anything."

Phil's features smooth out and Clint can see how very grateful he is for a task that he can do. "Let's go see someone about that, hm?"

The group of them wander towards the nurse's station and an older woman with a stern smile but friendly eyes pages the doctor who turns up several minutes later.

"Name?" the doctor asks immediately.

"Phil Coulson. I should be listed as her next of kin."

The doctor takes a scan of the manila folder in his hands, then folds up the chart, slipping it beneath his arm. "Mostly everything checks out. Her throat's a bit raw, but there should be no lasting damage from the smoke."

"Why is she still being monitored then?" Phil asks.

"There was a contusion on the back of her head. We're monitoring for a concussion." The doctor tips his head, "Mr. Coulson, did you see Ms. Romanov during the fire?"

"I'm afraid I didn't. She was in the other room and everything was  . . ." Phil shakes his head. "No, I'm sorry."

The doctor nods and Phil waits. "What is it?"

The doctor runs a hand over his chin, then says, "The bruising pattern is something we seen more often than we'd like. It's characteristic of a blow to the head."

Phil startles a bit. "Maybe she fell? Passed out from the smoke and—"

"No, it's more like she was struck with something from behind."

Phil blinks hard, looking from the doctor to Clint and Steve and Tony. "That's . . . impossible."

. . .

Morning comes. At least, daylight does. Clint doesn't know how long he's already been awake for, but at some point he gets discharged like the others, and parks it in Natasha's room.

Tony and Steve stake out chairs in the waiting area and Sam brings them all breakfast. He doesn't know where he cooked it since the diner is probably a pile of matchsticks, but he's grateful anyway.

He drops Natasha's share back off with Steve because he's been informed that all she's allowed to eat is jello until she's discharged.

"Did Sam take Phil back?" he asks.

Tony nods, barely looking up from his phone. His eyes are red rimmed and he slumps down further, exhaustion pulling at his features.

"Yeah," Steve pipes up around a mouthful of bagel. "The cops are there running an investigation for the insurance company. They needed Phil's signature and stuff."

Clint nods. "You two should take off. I don't know how long it'll be before Natasha's released."

"You sure?" Tony asks, eyes flicking up.

"Yeah, man. I'll text if there's anything."

He nods. "If you don't get an answer, call Bruce's place. His parents are gone and he's offered up a bed that won't smell like smoke."

"Thank god," Steve mutters. "Oh, Bucky wants to drop by and see Natasha."

"Bring him by later," Clint says. "Go get some rest. She's pretty out of it right now anyway." He cranes his head over his shoulder, watching a nurse exit her room. "I should get back. I'll see you guys later."

Tony groans as he pushes himself out of the chair, shaking his head. "There's no way this is real life." He shuffles by Steve. "Like, really?"

Clint offers Steve half-a-smile. "He's gunna get all philosophical on you."

Steve raises his bagel in toast. "I got him. Text Bucky if you need us. I'll be out cold, but he'll wake us."

"I will, man. Go make sure Tony doesn't step out in front of an ambulance or something. He's gone all zombie mode."

"On it." Steve jogs away after Tony and Clint sighs, shuffling himself back down the hall towards Natasha's room.

He finishes his breakfast, waiting to see if she'll wake up long enough to attempt the green slime that's been procured on her meal tray.

She doesn't even stir as he sits back down by her beside, but a half-hour later the shift change happens judging by the noise and voices in the hall.

There's a scuff and the slide of non-slip shoes against cold tile and Clint huffs, sitting up straighter. "Am I getting kicked out now?" he asks, seeing a new nurse come around the corner with a pair of gloves.

She offers him a sympathetic smile. "Yes. Just for the exam."

Clint nods.

"Oh, someone was asking for you," the nurse adds just as he's about to slip around the curtain. "Didn't want to come in though. Looked a little antsy. Think he stepped outside for a puff to settle his nerves. When you see him, tell him those things will kill him."

"Right," Clint says, grabbing his sweatshirt from the end of the bed. _Barney?_ Thought he was away for a few days. _Tying up loose ends,_ he'd said.

Clint makes his way to the hospital lobby, empty except for a few people mulling about the waiting room to be called into emerge for sore throats, ear infections, and bouts of flu. It's barely nine. The hospital rush hasn't quite started yet.

He watches Barney through the window out front, watches him play with the tip of the match before striking it against the bricks of the parking garage and sucking the flame into the end of a cigarette, the tip burning red. He used to watch Barney stoke the fires in the circus, when it was cold and they used the wood stoves to keep the big tent warm. Barney used to be able to put out small flames with a lick between his two fingers. It always fascinated Clint, to watch him work with the flame.

Now it does for a whole other reason, jarring words from the back of his brain. _There was someone. Thought it was you._

He watches Barney take a puff, smoke bleeding out around his head, and scratch through his hair with a shaky hand. Clint does the same thing. _Thought it was you._ It's a nervous twitch. _Thought it was you._

_Thought it was you!_

The similarity suddenly makes the steaming rage in his gut boil over and he bursts out the front doors of the hospital.

"Jesus!" Barney says as soon as he sees him. He tosses the cigarette to the ground and stamps on it. "People said the whole thing went up. You alright? What the hell happened?"

"The hell does it look like?" Clint growls stopping an inch from Barney's face, looking him dead in the eye.

"Looks like your cook must've forgotten to turn the burners off before you locked up, that's what. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Sam's never forgotten the burners. Not once! You show up and shit starts happening!"

"You think this was me?" he says, matchbook still clenched between his fingers and it makes Clint's skin prickle with wretched heat, just like what he felt off the flames in the diner. It surges through him and over him and suddenly he's lunging, hands colliding with Barney's chest as he knocks him back against the wall of the parking garage.

"What if it was me?" he screeches, throwing off the hand Barney sets on his shoulder. "In the diner! What if it had been me?"

"What are you talking about?" Barney says, breathing hard against the pressure of Clint's hands. "Jesus, Clint. I didn't. I swear. I swear!"

"How'd you know about it then, huh? Thought you were off dealing with shit?"

"I was. You know how word travels."

"I do, Barney. I fucking do. But it doesn't happen this fast. I don't care who you know."

Barney sets his teeth, and Clint glares at him hard, hands wrapped around his collar, fists pressing into his skin. "What happened, huh? You get stuck in the kitchen? You know that back door locks up if you don't push it the right way. She saw you, didn't she?"

Barney fights against his grip, but Clint pushes back, using all his weight, everything he's got to shove Barney back against the wall, to keep looking him in the eyes, because that's the only place he'll find the truth. Barney is a master of bullshit. He can spin lies as fast as Clint can snap an arrow into a target. It's what he does. The thing he's best at.

But Clint knows him. _He knows him._

"I don't know what you're talking about," Barney growls. "You're tired and stressed out. You should go back inside."

"Fuck you, Barney. Natasha has a fucking concussion! She could have died in there! Phil could have died. All because they were chasing a ghost."

"Those are mighty big accusations, Clint."

Barney lifts his head a fraction, eyes flicking to the side, and Clint knows. And he can't with him. He can't even touch him.

He wrestles his arms away and takes a staggering step back. "You can't stay with us, not anymore," Clint says between his teeth.

"Why?"

"I don't trust you."

"Clint—"

Barney reaches for him but Clint snaps his hand away. "Just, don't. When the firefighters clear the place, pack your shit. And stay away from my family."

"I am your family. I came here to see if my little brother was alright after I hear your place almost burns down and find out you risk your neck running back into those same damn flames to go rescue some girl!"

"She's not just some girl, Barn!" Clint screeches, surging forward, and his lungs tear and burn with the effort, voice hoarse by the end.

"She sure as hell ain't worth dying for. You only go back for family, Clint. And I'm your family. Your _only_ family. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"Don't talk to me about going back. You walked away from me, remember?! So don't. That wasn't on me then and this sure as hell isn't on me now."

"So it's on me, is it?"

"I can't prove anything, Barn, but I've got a feeling."

Barney sneers. "You were always a sap like Mama. You with your feelings and your emotions. Must run in the family."

Clint resists the urge to lash out again, hands shaking with the effort. "I want you gone," he says, before turning back on his heel. "I want you out of my life!"


	10. We've Been Here Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where there's a lot of therapy. Like so much, it's gunna be two chapters.

The next day Bucky comes  to the hospital early—it's barely seven—and offers to stay with Natasha so Clint can go home, shower, and bring Natasha a change of clothes because all she came in were sooty, smoke-soaked pajamas and he wants her to at least be comfortable when they leave.

When he pulls up to the property these are the first things he notices: the house survived; the diner not so much.

And everything they own probably smells like smoke. He assumes it'll take a couple weeks for it to wear away, or maybe they'll just get used to it by then. Clint doesn't know how you get used to it, especially when the front of the diner looks like it got backhoed.

Snow falls down around the debris and it looks disturbingly like Santa's village got plundered.

From the outside, the place appears as some abandoned hobo hangout.

It makes Clint sick to look at it. To think about it. He shrugs his hood higher over his head, ducking the snowflakes, and walks around back.

When he crosses around the garage there's already a person standing there, and though it's been less than twenty-four hours since the fight, it still startles him.

"Shame," Barney says, staring at the scorched brick over Clint's shoulder.

"Thought I told you to leave?"

"On my way right now. Saw the cops leave. You know, the insurance on this place will probably clean up nice. But if the old man had died . . . you'd be sitting pretty right now."

His grin is far too predatory for Clint's liking and he feels his fists tighten. On instinct he reaches out and grabs Barney's front, yanking him forward, almost off his feet. "Barney, you ever say that again and I will kill you."

He laughs, eyes tight. "Barton genes went straight through the line, huh?"

Clint stutters in his thoughts, licks his lips, then says, "I'm nothing like dad."

"Grip says otherwise, little brother."

"Fuck you, Barney."

He laughs again, hot and heavy. "You got dad's fire in you, same as me. How long do you think it is until you slip and hit her, huh? That girl of yours. Of course you won't mean it. Not at first. I don't think daddy ever meant it at first either. If not momma never woulda stayed."

"I'm not him." Clint lashes out, palms against Barney's chest. "I'm not!"

"Yeah, well, just remember. It's not me walking away this time. This one's on you."

"Fucking, hell," Clint growls, watching Barney trudge away through the snow. He doesn't look back, not even once and Clint's got a sinking feel in the pit of his stomach because every part of him is saying that this was Barney. And he doesn't know what to do with that or his insinuation that he'd ever hurt Natasha, like it's built right into his blood. Not right now. So he blocks it out, sort of like he's been doing all along.

He heads inside, avoiding everyone—Phil and Sam are occupied with reports and insurance claims—and hightails it to the attic. He's not in the mood to talk right now. He knows there will be plenty of that in the coming days (there's been a running text conversation between everyone for the past several hours and it's exhausting him to keep up). So for right now he just wants to grab their stuff and get back to Natasha. He takes two minutes for himself and runs through the shower, wiping the grime from the last two days away and it feels good. Refreshing in a way he hadn't known he needed.

When he gets back to the hospital he parks close and pays the meter because he doesn't want Natasha to have to walk that far (he knows she's gunna fight a wheelchair).

Inside he finds Bucky leaning back in the stiff-backed chair, legs propped on the end of her bed. He looks up when Clint enters. "She was up for like a minute, then she fell asleep again. I didn't want to wake her, but they dropped breakfast off. Says she has to eat it and pee before they'll discharge her."

"How'd you manage to get so much information out of them?"

Bucky wiggles his eyebrows. "The nurses like me." He stands. "Anyway, I'm gunna walk back to Bruce's and see how Steve's doing. Maybe even check on Tony. We'll see you back at the diner?"

 _What's left of it,_ Clint thinks.

Bucky offers him a thin smile, like he knows exactly what he's thinking. "It'll be okay."

"I know." Clint nods his head at the door. "C'mon. I've got the van. I'll drive you back quick."

"What about Natasha?"

"She's gotta eat that stupid jello anyway. Just hang on a sec and I'll leave her a note."

By the time he drops Bucky off and gets back to the hospital, she's been discharged. The nurses tell him so as he walks by the station. He enters her room to find her awake, covers rumpled and jello gone. "Hey there, beautiful," he says. "You ready to go?"

She smiles at him and it's brilliant. "God yes, get me out of here."

He hands her the change of clothes he brought in from the van and helps her shimmy into them before they try to give her room away.

She stumbles a bit when she stands, balance shot and she reaches for his arms before they've even shot up to catch her. She falls against his chest, sinking into his embrace. It's the first time he's held her, since he's really been able to hug her since the fire, and it feels good.

But it also just reminds him . . .

He breathes her in, can still smell that faint bead of smoke in her hair. "Hi," he says against her skin.

"Hey," she whispers back, fingers skimming the bumps in his spine.

"You okay to walk?" he asks. "I can get a wheelchair."

"I'll be fine," she says, pulling back and making a face at him.

He smiles, resisting the urge to laugh, and offers her his hand. She clasps it with both of hers and together they thank the nurses and make their way to the parking lot.

They get home and it's slow going because she's really dizzy and the place is a mess. Clint also wants her to eat something other than jello because he thinks her blood sugar might be low because she's suddenly lethargic. But the doctor also gave her strange horse pills she's supposed to take for pain every six hours and there's like two pages of side effects so it might be from that. He doesn't know.

All he knows is that Sam's cooking up a storm, just for them and Phil apparently, and his double chocolate chip pancakes make Natasha smile.

When they finish breakfast Clint helps her up to her room and into the shower. She's unsteady and he's worried that she's gunna fall, so despite some eye rolling on her part, he makes her sit on the side of the tub and helps her wash her hair.

When he starts massaging her scalp she finally gives up and lets him take over. The bathroom is warm and steamy because he lets the faucet run while he works. When he's satisfied that she no longer smells like a forest fire, he nudges her to tip forward and rinses her hair out, thanking Phil's design foresight for the removable shower head attachment. He traces the pop of vertebrae down her spine while her hair runs clean of shampoo, fingertips dancing over silky skin. She shivers under his touch but presses against him and he guesses it must feel good after spending hours cooped up in a hospital bed.

Clean and fed and dressed Natasha curls up on her bed, sighing and stretching out like a cat, only to roll against him when he climbs in beside her.

"Are you hurting?" he asks. "The doctor said we could back your meds up to every four hours if the pain gets bad."

"No," she says, letting her eyes flutter closed. "Just tired."

He rubs down her back and up her arm with his free hand, the other tucked around her shoulders to hold her close. They nap like that for a few hours and it's the best sleep Clint's gotten for the past few days.

Phil wakes them up with a glass of water and Natasha's next set of meds.

They eat dinner then because she's really not supposed to take them on an empty stomach and again Sam cooks too much, but no one complains, especially not Natasha because all she's been allowed is jello and weird soupy products.

They find out that Phil's pulled them out of school early. The Christmas holidays are still a little over a week away, but Clint doesn't complain. Fury's instructed them to stop by in two days. He’ll have their work so they don't fall behind. None of them can afford that right now.

Clint goes to pick up the guys from Bruce's house later that night, leaving Natasha home with Phil and Sam. They attempted a game of chess, but Natasha was squinting and rubbing at her eyes so Phil got her next set of meds and suggested TV instead.

When he left she was almost asleep and Phil was twitching like he was about to start swaddling her in blankets. There's something about the image that warms his chest; despite everything, some things didn't change.

But to some extent, everything had changed.

* * *

He's dragged out of sleep that night by a frantic Natasha.

She's thrashing beside him, fingers clawing at the bedsheets. "Pozhaluysta! _Pozhaluysta!_ " 

He edges up on his elbows, blinking hard in the dark. _Pozhaluysta?_ He's heard that before, tacked on to the end of Russian sentences strung between her and Bucky. Poz . . . Pu . . . _Please_.

"Natasha?" he says, grabbing her shoulder, squeezing hard enough to wake her, just on the cusp of pain.

She breaks from the nightmare, gasping at air the way she did when Sam had pulled her from the diner the night of the fire. And he knows then, that she dreams of red and flame. Of the fire that killed her father, memories dragged up by the fire that almost killed her. He was afraid of this.

"You okay?" he asks, when the gloss has left her eyes and she's left blinking at him, her reality. "Where were you?"

She shakes her head, brows furrowing. "I don't know," she says, but it's a whimper and _he knows_. "Hold me?" she asks in a way that says she's not sure if he will.

"C'mere," he says, pulling her closer, arms scooping beneath her and around her like a cocoon. "I'm here. Always right here."

* * *

The next night it's his turn to dream in red and she wakes him up, draped over his body like a weight, lips pressed against his neck, and he clings to her, long after the shudders have stopped.

"What was it?" she asks. "The fire?"

Yes, there were flames. Hot and red and reaching. But that's not it.

"I couldn't find you," he says, hands flat on her back so he can feel the beat of her heart through her shirt. "When I ran up here and your bed was empty . . . that was the scariest part. I can't lose you," he whispers in the dark, letting it wash over her skin like it might sink in and brand her with his words.

"You won't," she says. "I'm here."

He nods, pressing his chin to the top of her head.

"Have you thought about Barney at all?" she asks.

"Yes," he says, nodding against her. "All the time."

She sighs. "Clint?"

"Hmm?"

"There's something I have to tell you." She pushes off his chest a bit, enough to make him sit up and flick the bedside lamp on. Her eyes constrict and cringe against the light. When she adjusts she finds his face again and licks her lips. She's nervous. "A few weeks ago Bucky showed up early. Steve was asleep so I got up to let him in. We ran into Barney. He'd been going through Phil's office. I think he might have been looking up his will."

Clint sighs, looking at his hands before looking back at her. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I just . . . I wanted it to work between you two. I know how much you wanted it. And every strike against him made it harder for you. I'm sorry." Her voice breaks on that last word. "I didn't know this would happen."

Clint swallows hard and nods. "I figured as much . . . that this had something to do with Phil."

"You did?"

"Barney made a comment when he dropped by to clear out his stuff the other day. Said if Phil had died we'd have it made. I could have killed him."

"He wouldn't do that," she whispers. Clint's face falls and she stutters. "You think he was trying to kill Phil?"

Clint's jaw trembles as he takes a shaky breath in. "When we were young . . . the night before my parents died in the car accident I saw Barney come out of the barn from my bedroom window. It was where my dad parked the truck when it was supposed to rain. Barney was supposed to be in bed already but he got back up that night. And the way he smiled when the officer came to deliver the news the next day . . . he never cried. Not once. And I just knew." Clint has to stop looking at her to get himself under control. He stares at the lamp, the warm yellowing light reminding him how tired he is, but he rallies, because these are the things that keep him up at night. "You know, my dad was a jackass, and I'm not saying he didn't deserve what was coming for him after beating on my mom and us, but not like that. And mom never did anything wrong . . . but Barney blamed her for not being strong enough to stop him."

Natasha squeezes his knee in reassurance and he plows on.

"He's always been like that. Take what he wants. What he needs." His lips quiver again. "I think he meant to kill Phil that night. With the fire. But then you got in the way. And he panicked." He squeezes her fingers gently and his eyes find hers again.

"But why?"

Clint shrugs. "I know he needs money for something, probably to clean up a debt he owes someone—those break-ins in town last summer, Steve's mom's necklace, the money stolen from the till, it was all him. I know he's desperate because he asked me to run a job with him."

"A job?"

"A con."

"Clint . . . you never said," she pauses. Apparently there were more secrets between them than they thought. "Why?"

"I didn't want you to think I was like him. Maybe I used to be. But not anymore. I didn't want to lose you _because_ of him."

"And I didn't want to lose you _to_ him. No more secrets, okay?" she says and he nods. He reaches around to cup the back of her head, careful of where she was hit, and kisses her forehead. "What do you want to do now?" she asks when he pulls away.

"I . . . I have to turn him in."

"Oh, Clint . . ."

"I have to tell Phil." He rests his head against hers for a minute before pushing out of bed.

"Now?" she asks. "Like right now?"

"If not now I'll never do it." He had never faced it, not really. He just ran from it. First to the circus, then through the foster system, burying it in the world Phil helped him build. He always left it to someone else to step up and that was his problem. Maybe it worked when they were kids, but not now. Barney had to own up to this. Clint wasn't going to risk losing his family, not to keep one that had abandoned him a long time ago.

* * *

Phil's not in his room. It's empty and Clint has sharp flashbacks to the night of the fire. He shakes that from his mind and heads downstairs, finding Sam and Phil at the kitchen table nursing late night tea, heads bent close over expense reports, looking groggy.

"Hey," Phil says, suddenly more alert then when Clint walked in.

Clint feels his whole body seize and the feeling in his gut makes him want to puke. "I need to talk to you," he tells Phil, looking him right in the eye, because he owes him that much.

Sam shifts back in his chair, taking his mug. "I'll be in the living room if you need me."

Clint takes a seat in the vacated chair and when he opens his mouth everything comes spilling out. Every hard truth and tangled lie.

He waits with bated breath when he finally stops talking, explaining everything he had figured out between him and Natasha. He thinks maybe Phil will yell or scream. Be angry at the very least. But he just looks tired. Exhausted really. Bags black and purple beneath his eyes. Maybe Clint and Natasha weren't the only ones with nightmares tonight. He watches Phil look him up and down, before putting his mug down on the table and wrapping Clint in a hug.

"This is not your fault," Phil whispers. "Don't you dare think it is."

Clint can feel his hands in his hair and the gesture, so gentle, so calming, is what finally tips him over and he feels something snap inside him. He doesn't know when he starts crying or when he stops. But at some point he finds himself back in bed with Natasha, his nose buried in her hair and that’s the way he wakes up the next morning, warm, though everything inside him still feels jumbled.

It's a short respite from what he'll have to deal with once the cops want to interview him.

Natasha presses a firm kiss to his lips when they get the call to come down to the station. She doesn't whisper any sweet words or promises to him. This isn't going to be easy. She knows that. But she squeezes his hands, kissing the backs of his knuckles, and if nothing else, he knows he has her. He thinks that's promise enough.

* * *

The station is crowded and busy when they arrive and Clint feels like every cop is glaring into his soul, reading his past right off his face. It makes him feel cheap and dirty. Like the rotten kid from the circus.

He hates that.

Just when he thinks he might have to step outside for some air, he's called into an interview room. Phil sits back in the corner while Clint talks to the Detective. It's the same Detective Clint met last year: Wade Wilson. He'd hunted down Natasha's Uncle and now he was in charge of tracking down Barney.

They shake hands, like old friends. Clint looks at his weathered face and knows it's a worthy match. Both have seen their own version of war. Both have the experience.

They talk for a long time. For hours. And Clint unearths so much of his past he thinks there's gunna be nothing left inside him. He digs into memories. Painting a picture of who Barney is. What he is.

When they're done, the department puts a warrant out for his arrest.

Clint feels sick.

And it's hard because Clint loves him. Or at least, the idea of him. But he knows, deep down, where he buries the truths that hurt, that Barney started the fire that burned down the diner. A fire meant to kill Phil. And in the process attacked his girlfriend.

"You did the right thing, Clint. I know it was hard and it doesn't feel like it right now, but we're gunna fix this."

"Yeah," Clint says, but it's broken. It feels broken, like the words aren't even real anymore. Just a mimic of what he's supposed to say. _The right thing._

* * *

_"I know it feels weird, being on that side of the couch for once."_

_Phil gives Jemma an indulgent smile. "Not weird exactly."_

_"But it's good you called."_

_After the interview yesterday Phil decided it was time. He had watched his son unearth his past and by the time he was finished he'd looked so broken. So defeated. He hadn't even been able to look Phil in the eye. And that wasn't Clint. They've said very little to each other since the car ride home and he hates it. He won't lose his kids to this. Phil clears his throat,_ _"Guess I just figured it would be good to have everyone talk. I know they won't want to, but I don't want them bottling it up."_

 _"And_ you _wanted to talk?"_

_Phil smirks. "Guess I did. Sam's usually my guy, but he was in the middle of it this time, so . . . you know, I might suggest a session to him. Just to clear his head."_

_"I'm open to it if he'd like."_

_"Good. I'll talk to him."_

_"What about you though? How do you feel right now?"_

_"Overwhelmed I guess would make sense, but there's not a whole lot to do really. We're closed down until we can rebuild. The insurance company is figuring that out. I'm just waiting for answers right now."_

_"That must hard. And stressful. You've got a big family to support."_

_"It would be but I've always put something aside for a rainy day. Just in case. My parents were the same way. Frugal. Cheap. It stuck with me I guess. I've been lucky so far, and after a while it adds up. When I took the kids on, when we built this family, I knew I'd use it to send them all to college." He laughs. "Also part of me figured Tony would blow a hole in the side of the building one day, so . . . I was prepared."_

_Jemma smiles. "They're good kids, Phil."_

_"They really are." He swallows. "You know, I thought I'd miss it. The building. That I'd feel more nostalgia over having it burn to the ground. But it's the kids that make it what it is. I could be serving out of a tin shack and it would be fine, so long as everyone was there. I think that's what hit home the most. I could have lost some of them and the place never would have been the same."_

_"Have you told them that?"_

_"Not in all these words. But they know." He rubs his fingers over his lips. "I pulled them out of school early—before the holidays. I know Natasha probably needed the rest, but I kept the boys home, too. Routine probably would have been good at this point, but I wanted them with me."_

_"It's not a crime to want to be with your kids, Phil. Especially after something like this happens."_

_"I know. But now I'm worried about letting them go. I have this . . . nagging in my head all the time to know where they are. Where they're going. They've always been good but if this can happen at home, where they are supposed to be safe, what does that mean for the rest of the world? What if there's a car accident? What if—"_

_"There are a lot of what if's in the world," Jemma says._

_"That's the problem. And they've always been there. I know that logically. But now—"_

_"Now it feels like reality."_

_Phil folds back against the couch, loosening his tie from his neck. "Exactly."_

_"You know, their world's about to get a whole lot bigger in the coming months."_

_"I know. But I worry."_

_"All parents do. It's your job."_

_"I know that, too. And I help them through as much as I can. But sometimes I can't reach them. Not the way you do."_

_"What are you worried about?"_

_"Clint. He's taking this Barney thing really hard. I don't want him to think I blame him for anything, but the kid swallows emotions and carries them for a living. Barney being around hasn't exactly been good for Clint. I've allowed it as much as I could, when I could be around, but the boy is trouble and Clint was having a really hard time with it. He already shoulders so much, I don't want his brother's stupid decisions to be one of them. And Natasha . . . God, why'd it have to be a fire? The poor girl."_

_"Have you noticed any signs of PTSD in any of them?"_

_"Not yet, but the kids lean on each other a lot. Clint and Natasha. Bucky and Steve. Tony and Bruce. I know emotions are heightened right now. I just don't want this to drive a wedge between any of them."_

_"It'll be alright, Phil. I'll talk to them."_

_"I know. I'm gunna go tell them. Let them groan about it over dinner. Thanks Jemma."_

_She smiles, reaching out to shake his offered hand. "It's what I'm here for."_


	11. We've Been Here Before Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with even more therapy than the last chapter.

People keep sending food.

When they return from school, having picked up all their work from Fury, Tony picks up another casserole tray off the back porch and sighs. "It's not like anyone died."

"Thank God," Steve mutters taking it from him and going to put it in the fridge, making room on top of some other half-eaten trays.

"And it's not like we're not being fed. I mean, Sam's barely left since it happened and all he does is cook."

"Maybe the neighbours are trying to give him a break," Natasha says, shrugging her shoulder as she fits herself in at the kitchen table next to Clint.

He pulls her closer with an arm around her waist, pressing a kiss to the side of her head before saying, "I don't think he wants a break."

Bucky walks in the back door a moment later and looks up sheepishly when they all eye the pot in his hands. "My mom sent food. Again. I tried to tell her to stop but she wouldn't let me leave without it." He looks up between his hair, somewhat panicked. "She might never stop."

"What is it?" Clint asks.

"Borsht."

Clint feels himself pale at the word. He's not touching that with a ten foot pole.

Natasha pats his back soothingly. "I'll make sure we don't accidently feed you the borsht."

Clint smirks, leaning into her touch. "This is why I love you."

"No declarations of love at the kitchen table. It's in the rule book!" Tony says from across the kitchen where he's now perched on the counter, sticking a spoon into the pot of borsht. He sniffs it and licks at the spoon before swallowing. Around a mouthful he mutters, "It tastes like feet."

Bucky drops a hand to his shoulder. "You are not worthy."

Tony visibly gags as Bucky walks away, wiping his mouth on a dishcloth.

Natasha snickers into her Spanish book. Clint watches her translate verbs from memory, letting his hand massage the spot between her shoulder blades. She sighs and closes her eyes, looking far to content considering she's doing homework during the break.

"What's that smell?" Tony says suddenly, jumping off the counter and abandoning the borsht.

"Something's burning," Steve says.

"What's in the oven?"

As if on cue, the timer starts to beep.

"Ah, shit!" Sam says, sprinting into the kitchen, sliding between Steve and Tony. "The garlic bread." He wrenches open the oven door, waving one oven mitt at the black smoke and using the other to pull the tray out. "Phil, I hate your ghetto oven," he calls.

Coming in from the hall Phil says, "You can't even blame this on me. I was nowhere—"

Suddenly Natasha goes sprinting away from the table, knocking Phil out of the way. It' so hard and fast that Clint knows something's wrong and he's up and after her in an instant. Like instinct.

He gets as far as the hall bathroom before he hears retching.

"Tash?" he calls gently, knocking on the door with a knuckle.

There's no sound but the shuffle and groan of a body tensing.

"Natasha?" Clint says again, a kind of urgency in his voice as he touches the door knob, hesitating.

"Everything okay?" Steve asks, coming down the hall. Bucky is a step behind him.

"Not sure yet," Clint says. He pushes into the bathroom, noting she's left it unlocked in her haste.

He finds her hunched over the toilet, dry heaving whatever was in her stomach from lunch.

"Aw, Tash," he says, crouching down behind her, a hand in the middle of her back. He feels as every muscle inside her seizes and releases.

She folds back away from the toilet, legs shuddering underneath her.

Clint sits a few paces away, watching the way her face contorts, fighting off more than just the nausea. If she were asleep he might think it was a nightmare.

Her eyes flutter closed, the back of her hand pressed tight against her mouth as she leans against the wall, inhaling. "It was burning," she says.

* * *

_"You've been through this before, Natasha. Once, when you were very young?"_

_"Yes," she says. Then silence._

_"Do you ever dream of that night?"_

_"I hadn't. For a long time. I tried to erase Russia when I met Clint. It was the past and it didn't matter anymore. After Ivan it seemed to work. Things got better." She smiles a bitter, little smile, pulling one shoulder up to her ear. "No more nightmares. Not bad ones, anyway. So I thought if I couldn't see it—the red, the flames behind my eyes—then it wasn't there. Forgotten. But then this . . ." She closes her eyes and swallows._

_Jemma gives her a moment, then prompts, "The diner fire?"_

_"It's the smell," Natasha says, staring a hole in the wall, fingertips pressed against her bottom lip. It quivers anyway. "When people burn they have this certain smell. I'd . . . forgotten."_

_Jemma nods and waits._

_"My father was a painter. He kept his supplies in the basement. Oils and finishes and all sorts of things that fed the fire. When our house went up, it burned fast. This is what I was told. At least, when my mother talked about it. It was never while she was sober. Only when she was drunk and lonely. I think it hurt too much any other time. She would sit and think. Just think about that night. One more sip, one more memory. Things would spill out: horrors and truths. Some I could feel on my own skin. The memories prickling like the burn of smoke. I'd forgotten about that too, how that felt. I don't remember detail from that fire. Just colour. And . . . and the smell."_

_"Is that what happened in the kitchen? When Sam burned the bread?"_

_"Yes," she breathes, fighting off the memory. It's been days and every time she thinks of it. Every time she catches a whiff of burnt anything it makes her stomach turn._

_Clint had been in the front of the diner the other day, clearing out some things for Phil and he'd come back and she's smelled it on his hair. Her life smells like death, like burning flesh, and rotting bone, and melted clothes. It's horrible. It's terrible. Like a disease, infecting her senses. And she can't shake it._

_It's always there. Against her pillow. In the collar of her shirt. Soaked into the scarf Clint ties around her neck. Threatening. Suffocating._

_Her heartbeat kicks up into her throat, pounding at the base of her neck._ Breathe. Just breathe.

_"We call these triggers, Natasha."_

_"I know what a trigger is," she says through clenched teeth, squeezing her eyes shut and clenching her fists against her thighs. "I don't want any more of them!"_

_She's quiet after that, the only sound in the room is Jemma's pencil scratching traumatic understandings and what they mean across the loose-leaf pad on her lap. But eventually that stops too._

. . .

It's like walking through a tomb.

He's like _Tomb Raider_. Tony smirks. Bruce would have laughed at that.

But he's here alone because he's kind of sick of people right now. Of staring and not being able to do anything.

So he's raiding the debris, mostly without Phil's knowledge or permission. Well, what he doesn't know won't hurt him. And anyway, the fire department cleared the area. It's not like anything's gunna cave in on him, just poke him or prod him and send him to the hospital for a tetanus shot. Ah, well . . . he stands in the middle of the diner, spinning on his heel.

It's freezing cold. Some of the blown out windows have been boarded up, but that doesn't stop the chill.

The ice and snow maybe, but not the cold.

It's almost ironic really, considering this place was an inferno not that long ago.

It's amazing to him that some things survived. Random bits and bobs. And the longer he sifts, the more he finds. There's worn out photos that were tacked to the wall. Newspaper clippings of Steve's football stats. Bucky's arm. Other things. There are photos, too. People from town with Phil. The kids before Natasha and Bucky. Them after Natasha and Bucky. Recipes. Sam's clippings of fighter jets and hilarious (inappropriate) jokes that never left the kitchen. A semi-charred plaque forbidding Phil from entering the kitchen.

There's also the wooden counter where the cash register used to sit where they all carved their names at one point or another—them and Peggy and the day ladies—on slow, boring days, binding them forever as Sunnyside's only employees. Bucky was the latest addition. Tony runs his finger over the wood and it comes away black.

It reminds him of the drift wood you find at the beach after some kids have torched it in a bonfire. It's pretty beat up but the memory's still there—etched in black. It survived the fire. So did they. No reason it should be crushed and hauled away in some dump truck come demo day.

Tony slips a screw driver from his pocket and begins dismantling the counter. It proves more difficult when the edges and corners have melted together, but he just slips into the garage and returns with a hammer and crowbar.

"What are you doing?" Steve asks, startling Tony as he steps over a rubble pile. "Phil told you not to come in here."

Tony sets the hammer aside and tucks the screwdriver into the back pocket of his jeans. "Yeah, well, it's gotta mean something."

"What?"

"This, the fire." He waves around the diner, the piles of charred wood and burnt plastic seating melted into the walls and scorched brick, exposed wiring and columns. "It can't just be it. It's gotta mean more than just an ending."

"Tony—"

"We already lost everything else!" he shouts. "It's okay to keep part of it. Jesus!" He grunts as he digs into the ply board beneath the counter with the crow bar. "Just leave me alone, Steve. I got this."

Steve hesitates. Then: "Alright; just be careful. There's a lot of broken glass." He takes a step back and the twinge and crack beneath his boot is enough to drive the point home. "Holler if you need help."

* * *

Christmas is somber that year. Slow. Tired. Sam cooks but it's nothing like it usually is. Friends drop in and out, but it feels surreal. There aren't really presents. Just IOU's and no one really cares because their lives have been flipped upside down and the last thing they're thinking about it what to give each other for Christmas.

It's almost depressing.

But it's real.

Tony would rather it be real.

* * *

_"Something on your mind?"_

_"No."_

_"You're unusually quiet."_

_"Headache."_

_"You're still not being you."_

_"What're you talking about? Of course I am. I'm always me."_

_"Well," Jemma says, "this is usually the part when you ask me out, I remind you that I'm your therapist and explain the rules of doctor patient confidentiality and privilege."_

_"You're right, wanna start over? I'll scrounge up some pick-up lines."_

_"It's okay to be scared, Tony."_

_"I'm not scared, who's scared? I know Phil wants us to talk about the fire, but it's over. Finito. Case closed. Sealed with yellow tape and boxed up for the insurance company. I mean, yeah, there's a crap load of work that needs to go into the rebuild but we're not there yet. Phil's promised to let me have some creative control when we are though—eh, at least twelve percent, but he'll cave eventually. He's in a weird place right now, I think. Losing the diner, almost losing us . . . it's made him hypervigilant, like he thinks I'm gunna break my neck taking out the trash." He takes a breath, drumming his hands against his thighs. "You know, we didn't even put up a Christmas tree this year. It wasn't even a thing and no one said shit, you know why? Because the only thing any of us could think of was that stupid PSA the fire department puts out every year about live trees being a fire hazard. I mean, they said lightning never strikes twice, but that turned out to be a myth, why tempt fate, right? So we left it and Phil left it, but I can see it in his eyes. Everything looks like a danger to him now."_

_He laughs, almost hysterical. "But the joke of it is that I was never in any danger. Not me. Not really. I could have walked calmly out of the house that night. I didn't, but I could have. And I didn't go running back inside. Didn't go looking for Phil or Natasha. I didn't even try to stop Clint when he took off after them with Sam, because I thought, hey, that's who he is and if I try to stop him, he'll deck me one. But you know what I did do, I called 911 and waited. Waited while they dragged their asses to our place. I mean, I know they weren't stopping for drive-thru or anything, but fourteen minutes. I mean, what the hell is that? That's  . . . Jesus, you can drive across this damn town in under twenty on a good day! It was the middle of the night. There was no traffic!"_

_"Maybe it felt longer in the moment, because you were panicked and your senses were heightened."_

_"No, because I counted, Jemma. That's all I could do. Meanwhile my brain was spitting facts at me. Useless shit. I don't even know why I know this stuff. The temperature skin melts at. How long until oxygen deprivation results in brain damage. How hot it probably was in the diner while Clint and Sam were searching." He jumps up from the couch, feeling jittery under his skin, pacing a trail across the carpet, back and forth. "Half my family could have died, Steve too because he was just waiting . . . you know, stepping on his toes, raring to bust in there. To help. Because that's who_ he _is. But I was safe. I was outside."_

_"Tony, you didn't do anything wrong."_

_"Yeah, yeah, I know, but it doesn't change how it felt inside." He stops and looks at her, hand pressed against his chest. "Numb. It felt like nothing. I never want to feel that again." He closes his eyes, sucking in a breath through pursed lips. "Why does it feel like that?"_

_"You're parents died when you were young."_

_Tony plops back down on the couch, throwing his head back and tossing his arm across his face. "We've had this conversation before, Jemma. It's why we know each other so well. Remember, session one through eighty-four?"_

_Jemma smiles. "Phil's an important part of your life now."_

_"Has been for a while," Tony mutters._

_"But you only got to call him dad recently." She pauses. "Maybe it hit a little too close to home. The thought of losing your parent all over again . . . Do you remember before? When you were in the group homes? You used to tell me there were all these kids running around, but you were still alone. Do you remember how that felt?"_

_Tony pulls his hand off his face, letting her look him in the eye. "Numb. That's what I told you." He goes still after that, and quiet. He knows she knows that he's thinking, because sometimes he'll do that and she'll let him. Must be a therapist kind of thing. Finally he smirks, huffing out a laugh. "You're good, Simmons. Must be why Phil pays you the big bucks."_

_"It's nothing you don't already now, Tony."_

_"Yeah, well, if I wanted to talk to my subconscious regularly I'd go to church. This is better, for what it is, I guess. Hey, did I use the 'I heard you're good in algebra' one on you yet?"_

_"'Can you replace my X without asking Y'? Yes, Tony, twice. And I'm still going to end the session with a resounding_ no _."_

_He sighs, folding his hands behind his head with a small smile. "Sounds about right."_

. . .

"Anyone seen Steve or Bucky?" Phil asks.

"They're lip-locked in the garage," Tony says. "I'd offer to go unglue them but I'm gunna need a hazmat suit to get between them and that much saliva."

"Tony, were about to eat," Phil admonishes, putting a bowl of salad on the table.

Sam unearths a steaming taco bake from the oven and scoops up a bag of nacho chips from the counter. Clint's stomach growls and he loads his plate. He's suddenly starving and he doesn't know why. Oh, actually he knows why. Phil's watching him with those too careful eyes again. Jemma probably called and told him that Clint had skipped out on his session. Again. If he pretends like he's starving he can stuff his face for most of the meal. Tony will likely do or say something stupid. Distraction. Then Clint can slip away without having to talk about it.

He doesn't want to talk about it anymore. He's sick of talking. He just wants to spend the holidays with Natasha and forget the whole thing ever happened.

He drops his fork, feeling his dinner bubble up in his gut. He probably should have tried breathing between mouthfuls.

* * *

_"Clint, please sit."_

_"I don't want to do this, Jemma. Not today." Of course Phil scheduled a pop-by visit. Though Clint shouldn't have underestimated him after ditching dinner and clean up last night. This way there was no time for Clint to cancel with her._

_"You've postponed twice already."_

_He rubs a hand over his face, itching to leave._

_"This isn't your fault, Clint."_

_"Is that what you know?" he growls before he gets a hold of himself, hands falling to his hips, eyes on his shoes. He takes a deep breath, like she's taught him all those long, painful sessions before, and lets it out between his lips. "It's someone's fault," he says instead._

_And the worst part is, if he's right, Barney didn't just try to hurt him. He tried to hurt his family. He feels used. Like his brother used him to get close to them. Weasel his way in close enough to hurt. And he can't undo any of it._

_"I know it's not easy to talk about, and I know that all people have wanted to do lately is talk. Phil told me about the police. That must have been hard."_

_All Clint manages is to scoff. Nothing about this has exactly been easy. Right from the moment Barney walked back into his life._

_"But I also know that in all the confusion, sometimes they don't ask the right questions. The kind you still need . . . want to answer. So when and if you're ready, I'll be here."_

_"You're letting me go?"_

_She smiles, warm and comforting. "Running away from it isn't going to help you, but sometimes, running with it, at least for a while, helps you put things in order. In perspective."_

_He nods, hand on the door knob. "Guess I'll work on that . . . perspective."_

* * *

It gets dark so early in the winter that sometimes Clint forgets about the time. Sometimes he'll be lounging around with Natasha, watching stupid videos on the internet or sitting with her while she picks out pieces of music to dance to, and he'll glance at a clock, suddenly realizing it's almost midnight.

This is one of those nights.

He slips down from the attic, long enough to change. He's slept in her room every night since the fire. He doesn't think he'll never not sleep in there again, no matter how tired he is and how much his legs don't want to climb those stairs again.

He sneaks into his room quietly, expecting Tony to be asleep, but he's not, tinkering with some abandoned projects instead. Clint nods to him, then stuffs his head into a shirt. It smells clean though he found it on the floor. Their room's kind of become a catch all since the fire. He'll have to get his ass in gear and tidy up his half before Tony starts complaining.

"You hear that too, right?" Tony says.

"I think Phil's trying to get him to leave for a while."

"I've never heard Phil and Sam fight before. Not for real. I mean, there was that one week when we had no pastrami, but this is . . . did they get married and not tell us?" Tony asks, sitting down at his work desk. It's late but it's the holidays, so a proper bedtime is really just a guideline at this point.

"It's too crowded in here," Clint says, slipping into his pajama bottoms. "Without the diner, with everyone home all the time. People get stir crazy."

"I don't mind Sam being here at night." Tony twists a pair of bolts together, clamping them in a press. "It's nice. Having someone like him around. Just in case."

"Tony, it's not gunna happen again."

"You don't know that."

"Lightning doesn't strike twice."

Clint heads down to the hall to the bathroom when he hears Tony call: "That's a myth!"

* * *

_"Didn't think we'd be talking again so soon, Phil."_

_"It's not about me this time. Well, it is. But it isn't." He takes a breath, palm pressed against his forehead. "Sam won't leave." He swallows, separating every word with a pause. "You have to make him leave."_

_"Have you asked him to go home?"_

_"Every night since the fire. It was comforting at first. Knowing he was there. He helped drag us out for god sakes, but he needs to go back to his normal life."_

_"What did he say?"_

_"That he couldn't. Not yet."_

_"So what did you do?"_

_"I locked him outside. At night. In the cold. I thought he'd get the hint."_

_"And?"_

_"He broke in through the garage."_

_Jemma raises an eyebrow._

_"He's ex-airforce. Unsurprising, really. As long as he doesn't teach the kids, though Clint probably already knows—"_

_"And then?"_

_"He called me an asshole. Crawled onto the couch. Then told me to take some ground beef out of the freezer."_

_"So you . . ."_

_"Took the ground beef out, got him a blanket from the linen closet. He said his feet were cold 'cause I was being an asshole." Phil sighs. "Jemma, there's no more room in the fridge." He groans. "People keep sending casseroles."_

* * *

_"Mr. Wilson?"_

_"Sam—just, uh, Sam is fine. And sorry, it's just . . . this is weird. I haven't talked to a therapist since I was twelve. My parents were getting divorced. They thought I'd need help adjusting."_

_"And did you?"_

_He shrugs. "Nothing really changed. Dad was in the army. Travelled all the time anyway. Guess I just stopped expecting him to come home twice a year. Wasn't so bad. I got to go to him instead. See some pretty cool places."_

_"Your job took you to some pretty interesting places as well, I imagine. The one before you worked for Phil."_

_Sam feels a wistful smile creep onto his face. "Yeah, it did. The airforce was my niche, you know. But I, uh, lost someone. My wingman. It wasn't the same without Reilly. After that I just . . . didn't like being in the air anymore. So I hung up my wings. Took up with Phil and the kids."_

_"You enjoy working at the diner?"_

_"Love it," Sam says. "Good people. Happy place. Quiet—not like it doesn't get busy, but people noise sure beats the sound of an IED going off."_

_"Have you thought about it much? The night of the fire?"_

_"Constantly."_

_"What do you think about?"_

_"Just the flames, the smoke. I could see it from my house, you know, and I just had this sinking feeling in my gut. Haven't felt that since I watched Reilly's plane go down. It's a sick feeling, man. The worst."_

_"And you ran back, to see."_

_"I guess so. I don't remember point A to point B so much. Just getting to the kids and they weren't all there. Then me and Clint were inside and God—" He folds his arms over his chest, looking at the ceiling. "I went over it and over it in my head, you know, for hours while the firefighters were in and then the police. Did I leave the burners on? The stove? Was it not shut down? Did something fall on the stove top? And I couldn't remember. Like, I knew I did it, shut everything down, the same way I do every night, but I couldn't remember, because it's the same thing_ every night _. Like when you climb in the back of a jet. You don't remember everything about the take-off, you just know you went from the ground to the air. If you're still alive when you get up there you did a good job." He sighs. "I keep double and triple checking every time I turn the oven on in that house. I'm giving myself OCD, man. But I just . . . I don't know."_

_"The fire wasn't caused by the ovens, Sam."_

_"I know, it's just . . . for next time, you know."_

_"Sam—"_

_"They're not children anymore. Not by a longshot, but they're like my kids. I've seen them grow up. Goof off. Flunk algebra tests. Win championships. Watched them fall in love—and in Tony's case that's been a lot. You know, until Pepper. It's just . . . I haven't been able to leave for two weeks now. I'm sleeping on the couch. Driving Phil batty. The fridge is too full. People keep sending damn casseroles, like I don't know how to cook?"_

_"Sam—"_

_"It'll stop, right? The fear? Like, I'll be able to go home one of these days, right?"_

_Jemma drops her pencil into her lap. "Sam, you're going to go home tonight and sleep in your own bed. Then you're going to come back tomorrow morning. And when you wake up in the middle of the night and panic, you're going to call Phil and he's going to tell you that everything's okay."_

_"He told you, didn't he?"_

_"Yes._

_Under his breath, he mutters, "Asshole."_

* * *

Clint wakes a few days later to the sound of crashing. He zeros in on the kitchen, judging by the shouting that follows. It's definitely morning, white light peeling in from outside. Snow always makes the day seem infinitely brighter. Not necessarily in a happy way, just a way that hurts his eyes.

Natasha sits up beside him, sudden and sharp, her long red hair tangled around her shoulders. "What's going on?"

Clint rubs a hand over his face, flopping back down and pulling her next to him. She falls close enough that he can press his cheek to hers. "Sounds like Tony. And a mess. Let's pretend we're still asleep so we don't have to clean it up. Steve will check it out." Clint yawns, his jaw rubbing against her skin.

She giggles and shuffles away from him, so he does it again.

"Stop," she whispers, halting him with a kiss that he melts into for a second. "It tickles."

He drags his jaw along her neck and chuckles against her skin when she gasps, twisting and turning to contain the laughter that flutters in her throat.

"Maybe I won't shave today," he says, enjoying a warm, snuggly Natasha. The moments have been sporadic these last few weeks so he enjoys it when he can.

"I do like this look on you," she says, green eyes tracing the line of his jaw, before following with her fingertip. "Very distinguished."

"Should I leave it then?" He attacks her neck with a peppering of kisses and she shrugs away, before his arms tighten around her and he can kiss her good morning properly, her hips trapped between his thighs as he leans over her. She sighs against his lips as he pulls away and when her eyes flutter open again, losing their dazed look, she smiles crookedly.

"You better shave. You're too distracting like this." She taps his jaw twice with her hand, bringing him down for one more kiss before he rolls off her to use the bathroom.

They can still hear shouting coming up the vents in the bathroom while they brush their teeth. For some weird reason Clint thinks they're fighting over Sam. But that would just be stupid. Right?

* * *

_"Don't look at me like that," Jemma says._

_Tony rolls his eyes, turning his glare on the closed door instead. "You know we just did this, right?"_

_"Phil said there was an incident."_

_Tony grumbles under his breath. "I may have broken some of the dishes. On purpose. Because I was angry. I already apologized. I replaced them. It's finished."_

_"Tony . . . why?"_

_"You. Know. Why."_

_"I want to hear you say it."_

_"I don't like your tricky therapist moves. You just make me say things that I already know but don't believe."_

_"That's my job."_

_"I know, we discussed this last time. But sometimes I don't want to be enlightened to the stupid things inside my head that I don't process properly."_

_Jemma ignores this. "Why were you angry?"_

_"Because he made Sam leave, okay!"_

_"So you were what, scared?"_

_"Jesus, Christ, of course I was scared!"_

_"And having Sam there made you feel better?"_

_"He pulled them out. He was the one who went back in with Clint. No hesitation. I've seen a lot. You know, Steve and Clint beat the shit out of that no-good Uncle of Natasha's. They protected her. Phil took us in, protected us. But fire . . . it's . . . you can't fight it. Like it just burns. Doesn't matter because it's stronger than us. Than people. Flesh versus flame. There's no competition there."_

_"How does that make you feel?"_

_"Small. Vulnerable. Like we need something . . . something more," he mutters. "To be stronger."_

_"What would make you feel stronger?"_

_"Bucky's strong. I—Bruce and I—we made him stronger, with his arm."_

_"You want to build another arm?"_

_"No. It's not enough."_

_"So what would you build?"_

_"An entire suit." He refocuses. "How else are we supposed to keep going? When there are things like that . . . when they're so much more powerful that we are?"_

_"You can't build suits around everyone you know, Tony. The world doesn't work like that."_

_"Yeah, well it should. I should be able to protect the people I care about."_

* * *

That afternoon Clint makes the rounds and picks up Bruce and Bucky, bringing them back to their place. There are plans for shopping at the mall, now that the crazy Boxing Day rush has died down a bit.

Before they go, though, Phil calls both Bucky and Bruce into the kitchen. He kicks Tony out before he can ask why and when Jemma turns up five minutes later, waving as she passes through the living room, Tony turns to Clint and says, "He can't be serious. This is getting out of control."

* * *

_Bruce scratches his head awkwardly, sitting in the seat across from Jemma. "I don't really know what I'm doing here."_

_"Me either," adds Bucky, sitting down with far less grace._

_"I think we visit too much," Bruce says. "Phil thinks he's adopted us. We're not really his kids."_

_Jemma laughs. "I think he just wants me to check in. Like you said, you spend a lot of time here. Would it be safe to assume it's like a second home?"_

_"Sometimes more than a second," Bruce mutters._

_Bucky shrugs. "Russia was home. Here is home. The place doesn't matter so much. Just where the people are. Steve, Natasha. My friends."_

_Jemma nods. "I know it can be tough, when your friends go through something traumatic like this. They tend to cling to what's normal. In this case that's you two. And sometimes that can be stifling."_

_"Well I'm pretty sure Tony tried to stifle me in my sleep the other night with a pillow, so I don't know if that's a thing?" Bruce says._

_"Oh, no, that was me," Bucky says. "You were snoring. Steve was snoring. It was getting out of hand."_

_Bruce studies him, head tipped back. "Good to know. But on another note, Tony thinks we should start make fire proof suits. Full body coverage. He wants to dip into his inheritance next year to start up production."_

_Jemma squeezes the bridge of her nose. They had talked about this._

_"That could be cool," Bucky offers._

_"Yeah, he kind of modelled the blueprints after your arm. It'll be multifunctional of course."_

_"Well, sure. Who wants a metal suit that just protects you from fires?" Bucky says, shrugging._

_"I know right. It should do other stuff, too. Useful things."_

_"Think he can make it fly?"_

_"Maybe with some sort of scaled down jet propulsion system."_

_"Isn't that gunna take like, a lot of battery power?" Bucky says. "Like he'd have to drain the sun."_

_"Tony's working on a special reactor. Low energy. Green for the environment. Only problem is testing it would probably short circuit the entire town. Blow out the breakers at least once. Twice if the trial run goes south."_

_"Twice is not so bad," Bucky says._

_Bruce hums. "That’s what he was thinking." He snaps his mouth closed when he sees Jemma make a note about another appointment with Tony._

* * *

"Where are you going?" Tony asks, watching Steve make his way down the stairs and towards the kitchen.

"I have an appointment with Jemma."

"You're going willingly?"

"It'll happen either way, Tony."

"Why'd you get to wait so long?" Tony demands suddenly. "My first one was weeks ago!"

"Because I didn't throw plates across the kitchen." Before Tony can respond there are more voices in the hall and Bruce and Bucky finish with Jemma. Steve pats Bruce on the arm as he leaves the kitchen, still scratching his head. "That was weird," he mutters.

Bucky stops long enough for Steve to press a kiss against his cheek before plopping down on the couch beside Natasha. "Nice girl. I like her."

Natasha makes a noncommittal noise at the back of her throat and Clint squeezes her leg gently. Jemma was nice. Whether they liked her or not depended on the day and how the session went. Natasha's last one was tough. Clint kind of ducked his so . . . he's got no complaints.

"Well," Tony says, kicking Bruce's foot to get his attention. "You're officially one of us. How's it feel?"

"I don't know, how do you feel about going to another session?"

Tony sits up straight. "Why? What did you tell her? You mentioned the Iron Man thing, didn't you?"

* * *

_Jemma flips to a new page in her book as Steve puts a mug of tea down beside her. "Thank you," she says with a smile. "How've you been, Steve?"_

_Steve sits down with his own mug, taking a sip and nodding slowly, letting the heat dissipate over his lips. "Good, or, well, I guess as good as can be expected after everything?"_

_"But how are you feeling?"_

_"Honestly? Scared. Worried."_

_"About what?"_

_"Everything, I guess. We've been through a lot the last couple of years. Some of us our whole life. Now we're at a pivotal point again with graduation coming up. Maybe college. I feel like we need to be on our game right now. Instead . . ."_

_"Instead what?"_

_He sighs. "We're all over the place."_

_Jemma nods. "So now what?"_

_Steve folds his hands in his lap, studying the picture on the wall above the kitchen sink. It's one of everyone in front of the diner. It might have been the shot from the first day of senior year. Yeah, that's the one. "We put ourselves back together the best we can. We move on."_

* *  *

At the beginning of January the insurance claim comes back and Phil's eyes almost bug out of his head.

Tony snaps up the claim and whistles long and loud. "Holy sh—"

"Language!"

"This is more than enough to put that extension on! And upgrade the kitchen. Sam's gunna flip his sh—"

"Language!"

"—when he finds out."

And that's how they spend January. Tony throws himself into the project with vigour, planning and prepping and helping Phil hire reputable contractors.

The rest of the kids help where they can, mostly making sure Phil still eats.

By the end of the month the red neon open sign flicks on in the window and Clint feels a laugh bubble up his throat. The place has never looked better. Or bigger. They're gunna need more staff.

"So," Phil says with a grin that just won't quit. "Who wants to go to work?"


	12. Both

With everything that's gone on—the fire, Barney, sessions with Jemma, getting the new diner up and running—February rolls in with a bitter bout of snow storms and Clint almost forgets about applying for school; that is, until Tony gets his first acceptance in the mail. It's not his first choice by any means, but it's still one more than Clint has.

Phil's simply ecstatic about it and the college talks begin. Constantly. At every meal.

Clint cringes internally, neglecting to mention that he hasn't exactly gotten around to finishing any of his applications yet. He suspects Natasha knows. It's the way she watches him in the library during spare or the subtle way she pretends to have more homework than she really does, almost inviting him to spend the extra time getting his files in order.

He even spontaneously has a guidance appointment with Fury and, when he looks down at the appointment card that he apparently filled out, the writing looks suspiciously like Natasha's. She denies everything with a shake of her head and too wide eyes. He goes to the meeting anyway because if not Fury will call Phil and then there'll be more talk; plus maybe it would do him some good. Or maybe it'll just confirm what he already knows—he has no idea what he wants to do!

Fury piles college admission books into his hands with images of pretty campuses in the spring and old, stone buildings on the covers.

Clint resists the urge to roll his eyes.

This is so not him.

"What do you want to do with your life, Barton?" Fury asks, highlighting the 15th of February in yellow ink against the top of the page he hands Clint, just to help it sink in. The application deadline for most schools was close. Far too close.

He doesn't answer for a minute, instead sinking down in the cushioned chair as the yellow date blurs across his vision, because the honest truth is that he never thought he'd get this far. Ex-carnies usually don't graduate high school, never mind get to make decisions about college.

Fury watches him steadily from across the desk, over the top of his folded hands. "Applying somewhere is better than applying nowhere. You're a smart kid. You've got decent marks and some extracurriculars. Give yourself some options, Barton."

So he does. He spends the next week sending out applications to schools and programs that he really has no interest in, but Natasha's applied to some of the same schools and at this point the only thing he's sure about is keeping them together, or at least, in the same city.

He applies because he's been told to.

He applies because everyone else is.

He applies because Phil will be heartbroken if he doesn't reach for something greater than a high school diploma after all this.

He applies but his heart's not really in it because Natasha is his heart and wherever she isn't he can't be. Not long term. And college is as long term as it gets for them right now.

Still, the day he mails the tightly-packed, brown envelopes out by express-post to beat the deadline, he feels a weight drop off his chest. It doesn't matter what happens now. It's done. He's given it his best shot, whatever that is.

He gets home later than everyone else that afternoon, having spent an hour at the post office licking stamps, and finds Natasha stretched out on her bed, skimming through a chapter in her French textbook.

She glances over at him as he drops his bag by the door, shuffling across the room. He's mentally exhausted more than anything, but it shows in the drag of his feet.

"You want to talk about it?" she asks.

He shrugs. "It's done now. I don't really want to think about it again until I have to."

"You mean until you have to make a decision?"

He sighs. "Yeah. Can we just leave it alone until then?"

She nods, patting the space beside her. "Lay with me?"

He climbs onto the bed without hesitation. Tony and Steve are working the diner tonight. Bucky's on shift too and with the school play over Thor has started picking up the occasional shift along with Bruce and a slew of new employees. Phil's actually training the new recruits himself.

Business is booming, as per usual.

The regulars keep them busy and the promise of warm sandwiches and hot pie bring in the crowds from the cold.

So they're technically alone in the house right now.

When he settles beside Natasha, she puts her book aside and presses against him. It's nice to just lay with her.

Quiet moments with her are always his favourite. When he can hear her breathing beside him. Calm. Relaxed. And he hopes, happy.

He likes the feel of her weight against him: her head on his shoulder, her thigh pressed against his. The pull of her hair across his skin when she sprawls out, stretching like a starfish. The way it drags across his face when she crowds him on the bed for a kiss.

There's a new kind of intensity to their kisses. Their touches.

It's been that way since the fire.

There have been some very long, very emotional sessions with Jemma, and though it's left them both wrecked on occasion, it's also given them a new kind of foundation to build off of. Something stronger, born of understanding and trust and so much love Clint's not sure what to do with himself most days.

He's started keeping more of his things in her room, and there's a certain familiarity to it that speaks of the near future, when they won't have two separate rooms to divide them anymore.

He still keeps some of his clothes downstairs in the room he shares with Tony, though most have migrated up to Natasha's closet. He wants her to know that she still has her own space, that he can leave her be should she want it, but since the fire especially they've become inseparable and he's spent every night beside her.

The nightmares have calmed, and even when they haven't, they always do better together than apart.

She'll hold his hand while she falls asleep and some mornings he'll wake up with her fingers still tangled in his. It's always a chore to let go.

Always.

But they've still got school, so . . .

. . .

Later that afternoon, Clint pushes his math book to the edge of the kitchen table, having finished his homework and goes in pursuit of Natasha who disappeared about an hour ago after finishing both her Spanish and Sociology homework in the time it took him to prod the coffee pot to life—she's too smart for her own good sometimes.

He suspects she's in the basement, pounding away on Steve's punching bag or maybe dancing, but he doesn't hear any music; either way, he slips upstairs to change into something more suited to sweat in.

He finds her in the basement, but instead of going a round with the bag, she's stretched out on a purple yoga mat, flat on her back, seemingly at the tail end of a routine judging by the thin sheen of sweat that covers her skin.

Her eyes are closed as he approaches, not quietly because he doesn't mean to scare her, but something tells him not to break the quiet just yet. She's in a calm place, one that he doesn't want to roust her from.

Instead he picks up the hand wraps at the base of Steve's punching bag and with a practiced eye, wraps them expertly around his palms until he feels the tension pull tight across his muscles. He finishes with one hand and snaps the Velcro down.

He begins wrapping his other hand and looks up in time to see Natasha crack an eye enough to look at him. She curls one corner of her mouth up, an inviting kind of smile, before she closes her eyes again, returning to her focused breathing.

Clint finishes wrapping his hand before making his way over.

He studies her closely: the long strands of hair that have escaped her ponytail, probably at some point during her workout, the rise of her ribs beneath the fitted tank, jutting out at the peak of every breath, the way her tongue darts out to moisten her lips.

With quick movements he steps over her with one leg, before lowering his arms to either side of her head. Deliberately slow, he lowers his arms, a kind of modified push up, until he's almost flush against her, but not touching, save for the brush of his clothes against hers—his are far less form fitting.

When his face hovers above hers, his breath ghosting across those straying pieces of hair, she snaps her eyes open, mouth curling into a fuller smile.

"Hi," he says, studying her eyes. There's tells in the way they flicker over his face, down his arms, back to his face. It makes him warm inside, watching her study him so closely. He watches the way her pupils dilate as he drops himself lower. Still not quite touching, but making a teasing display of it.

He hears her shuffle on the mat, flattening her hands as if resisting the urge to touch him.

He likes this.

It's become a game.

"Good workout?" he asks, tipping his head to let his breath trail against her ear.

She lets her eyes flutter closed again as she answers: "It was, until I was interrupted."

"You looked like you were finished to me," Clint murmurs.

"How would you know? Maybe I was just starting."

Clint laughs, dropping himself a little lower, letting his legs straddle hers, bodies connecting, until it's only his arms holding him up and he feels her gasp, her ribs shooting up against his. He drops his head enough to press a kiss to the bottom of her neck. Her skin is cool and flushed. He can taste salt against his tongue, built up from the sweat. "Are you just starting?" he teases. "Because I can go . . . if you'd like. Hate to mess up your work out."

"Don't you dare," she whispers, and her skin flushes where he's kissed her.

. . .

He makes her skin simmer, hot and warm, like fire beneath, which is such a strange analogy to Natasha now.

Fire's come to be something she fears again. Something that brings her out of sleep in the dead of night until she remembers where she is. The warm flush that prickles her skin at the thought sends a feeling of dread right to her gut, but when Clint touches her, it's a completely different fire, one that pulls from inside and melts everything it touches like liquid heat.

It tingles and traces, leaving spirals of feeling on her too sensitive skin.

She can't get enough of the feeling.

She lets her hands wander up his arms, tracing the bulge of his biceps as he holds his position over her, muscles straining under skin. His arms really are miraculous. Her fingers skim down the length of his forearm, following the strong veins that circle his wrists and end in his hands. A wave of warmth shoots through her, right down to the tips of her toes and she fights the urge to curl them.

She lets her hands slip up under his shirt then, fingertips moving across the lines of his abs. She'd really like him to take his shirt of right now. She'd also really like him to take her clothes off too. She thinks he might be reading her mind, judging by the look in his eyes and she can see how much he regrets that they're downstairs and not up in her bedroom.

They're broken out of the moment by a herd of footsteps and then sputtering.

"Oh, good GOD! It's like porn! And not even the good kind," Tony screeches, hurtling back up the stairs three at a time. "Warn a guy, Clint! You have a phone for a reason. Or put a sign on the door. Literally anything!" There's a pause and they think maybe Tony's run off to sulk somewhere else in the house, but then they hear the basement door open again and the soft thump as something is tossed down the stairs at them.

Clint looks up and snorts. "He sent us a condom."

Natasha brings a hand up to cover her eyes. "That was fast. You think he keeps them stashed around the house? Am I going to reach into a cookie jar one day and not find cookies?"

"It's a possibility," Clint says, rolling to the side so she can get up.

. . .

To his surprise she wraps her arms around him, knocking him onto his back, her leg shooting out to hook around his waist as she nestles her chin against his chest, hands tucked neatly underneath her.

"Tash, this probably isn't a good idea here. We've already been had by Tony. Phil's probably on his way." He snags her hand, pressing a kiss against her fingers. "As much as I want to. And trust me, I really, _really_ do."

"I know," she says, a smile pulling at her cheeks. "Spar with me? I have a lot of energy all of a sudden." She wiggles her brows at him and lets her pull him to his feet. It's probably a good idea in the end, burning off some of the excess energy they've acquired, especially since Tony returns with a reinforcement and Bucky smirks at them for a good half hour, utterly pleased with himself.

Natasha, to her credit, only blushes long enough to sock Bucky in the shoulder.

He frowns and rubs his arm and then, when the moment has passed and his Russian teasing is no longer getting to her, asks to go a couple rounds.

Clint watches as Natasha and Bucky beat on each other and it's hilarious and he kind of wishes he was recording because they fight dirty. They fight like brother and sister. There's hair pulling and biting, with actual full on teeth. At one point Natasha's got her thighs wrapped around Bucky's neck and in the next moment he's literally sitting on her back, pinning her to the ground like he and Barney might have done when Clint was five.

It's ridiculous.

Steve joins them at the tail end of whatever you call this thing that is definitely not exercising, but maybe an altered form of MMA fighting, and Clint's glad because he never would have believed him otherwise.

"Should we stop them?" Steve whispers.

Clint shrugs. "No one's died yet. I feel like it's okay." But for good measure he looks hard at Bucky and says, "Don't break my girlfriend."

"Break her? Are you serious? She bit me."

"You have a metal arm."

"Exactly. I'm already down one and she's taking chunks out of the other." He looks back over his shoulder where Natasha is tapping her foot, arms crossed. "Not cool, _Natalia_."

She glares daggers at him before surging forward and pinching the skin on the back of his upper arm, hard. Bucky drops to his knees and immediately surrenders. "Ow! You fight like a Russian housewife. I hate you sometimes."

She releases him with a grin that is far too pleased with herself before skipping off the mat, leaving Bucky to massage his flushed skin.

"Come with me," she says, taking Clint's hand.

"Where are we going?"

She looks at him sidelong, eyes darkened, still breathing hard from the fight. "To find somewhere we won't be interrupted."

"Oh," Clint says. " _Oh!_ Now?"

"Yes, now."

"But Phil—"

"Will be busy doing expense reports with Sam for the next hour, like he does every Friday before ordering day."

"Yeah, but—"

"Tony just came down to retrieve that metal junk for the thing him and Bruce are building. I heard the garage door so they've taken the van somewhere and Steve and Bucky look busy to me," she whispers, gesturing to where the two of them are curled up on the ancient couch, a movie already queueing up on the old entertainment system.

"Well, _shit . . ."_ Clint says putting all the pieces together and a rush of blood immediately heads south as Natasha drags him towards the stairs. He catches on quickly and ushers her up faster, smacking her ass lightly and she giggles as he chases her up to the attic, closing and locking the door behind them.

 . . .

Natasha comes the first time while straddling him; he's got one hand down the front of her pants, the other gripping her ass as she bucks. Her hands splay against his chest, eyes wired shut, jaw open, fighting for the breath that's gotten caught up in her lungs.

It's mesmerizing and erotic in the best possible way. She's beautiful and flushed and . . .

This is the first time they've slept together since the fire, Clint realizes with a sudden, sharp clarity that almost makes him gasp.

They've been together so much since then, touching and reassuring. He'll run gentle kisses along her forehead and she'll brush her hands over his thigh or his wrist, or run her feet against his, not in an amorous way, but just to feel him, to know he's there.

Since the fire it's been all about reminding each other that they're there. Real. Living and breathing.

They'd needed that comfort. That ease to slide back into life like normal when everything was abnormal. They'd needed each other, he just didn't realize how much closer they'd become without doing this.

It really hadn't even been something he'd thought of until now because she'd been hurt and recovering from the concussion had taken time. Then there were the therapy sessions with Jemma: intense and long and it left them both raw and emotionally exhausted and all they wanted at the end of the day was to hold each other. Then Clint had to deal with the Barney thing and that had taken a considerable amount of effort on his part, dealing with the police, with Phil, with himself. Trying not to hate himself for what had happened.

And in the middle of it all they were rebuilding the diner and dealing with school. So yeah, it's not like they hadn't been busy. But now he realizes just how much he's missed this part of their relationship. How starved they've been for these kinds of touches.

It might explain some of the urgency, too. Why Natasha's peeling out of her clothes, while her thighs still quiver against him.

It starts fast after that, both of them still running off some sort of adrenaline, and somewhere along the way they don't quite lose steam, but it becomes something slow and sensual.

He thinks she meant it to be fast, a quick thing before everyone caught on to what they were doing locked away together, but by the time they were both naked and looking at each other, Clint knew he didn't want to rush it.

So he lingers over her, touching and caressing and soaking up all the little noises she makes.

Eventually she rolls them over and rides him in long, slow jerks, bringing him off.

Clint shudders, tracing his hand down her chest, over her belly, and stops to rub his thumb over that sensitive little nub that sends her wild.

She jerks faster at his touch, still keyed up from her first orgasm, urging them both towards the edge of something wonderful.

Natasha falls first, the fluttering of her inner muscles around him sending him headlong into bliss.

She crumples down against his chest, exhausted, sated, and pleasantly snuggly.

"Good?" he whispers into her hair when the white behind his eyes disappears.

"Mmm," is all she manages and he laughs, rubbing gentle circles into her back. She kisses him twice on the chest before snuggling her face under his chin, her arms wrapped under his and over his shoulders.

He knows if he lets her she'll fall asleep like this, and as much as he'd love that, it's early and they should probably make an appearance at dinner to starve off any wayward accusations. Also, food sounds like a great idea, too.

So he squeezes her waist, fingers digging in enough to make her giggle. He coaxes her to the bathroom eventually and she tugs him into the shower behind her which is a new thing. He's always tried to give her privacy, except of course that one time he helped her after the concussion, but he decides soaping up his girlfriend under the warm spray is his new favourite thing. It gives him an excuse to run his hands all over her again and for Natasha's part, she seems to enjoy it, not to mention her own view, which she gladly takes advantage of, letting her hands roam him until they've turned to prunes.

After that they get out and dry off, slipping into comfy clothes.

He kisses her when her head pops through the head hole of one of his old school sweatshirts—probably one of the smaller ones from grade nine. He helps her untuck her hair from the hood and guides her back over to the bed. She sits between his thighs and he pulls a brush through her hair. It's already curling by the time he's done and he plants another kiss at the very top of her head, inhaling strawberries and vanilla.

"You changed your shampoo?"

"This one smells better."

"Agreed."

She turns her face to look up at him. "I would pick one that's your favourite but we all know that would be something that smells like pizza and coffee and I don't know how well that translates into hygiene products."

He laughs, kissing the tip of her nose. "You're cute."

"I try."

"You don't have to try, but I appreciate the effort."

"I know you do," she says, wiggling her brows.

"I wasn't talking about that kind of effort."

She laughs, twisting in his lap to wrap her arms around his neck.

"Don't start anything you're not about to finish."

"Who said I wouldn't finish it?" she asks, arching her brow delicately.

Her stomach grumbles then and they both snicker. Clint takes her hand and pulls her up off the bed. "Let's see if we can sucker Phil into getting a pizza."

"Hawaiian?" she asks.

"If we must." He presses a kiss to the side of her head, unlocking and opening the door. "You know you have an unhealthy addiction to canned fruit, right?"

"No harping on my processed fruit. I put up with your coffee addiction."

. . .

February winds into March and the snow eases up a bit but there's still a heavy layer of white peppering the sidewalks most days and Phil reminds them in earnest to drive carefully through town.

There's been no movement on the case against Barney so far. He knows how to hide and how to cover his tracks. He also has enough shady connections to have found out that there's a warrant out for his arrest, so if Clint knows Barney at all, he knows he'll be lying low right now.

Despite that, Clint's been given specific instructions to call Detective Wilson should Barney try to contact him at all. Phil's taken to checking in with him weekly and if Clint even squints funny Jemma shows up in the afternoon for one of her surprise chats, so he's gotten good at talking to Phil again.

He's glad for it because he likes feeling close to Phil, likes knowing he can tell him anything; he'd been so afraid that this Barney thing would drive a wedge between them that he'd started to unconsciously pull away. Good thing Phil was always good at holding on too tightly.

By the middle of the month more school acceptances start rolling in. Natasha gets early acceptances into two of the three schools she's applied to, one of which is NYU, the closest of all of them. Steve gets accepted into a general arts program which has everyone elated, but Bucky more than anyone because this means Steve is leaning away from his army plans. Bruce and Tony definitely hold the tally for most options though. It's obvious they're going to get in wherever they've applied, but when the offers start rolling in from school's they haven't contacted, things become more complicated. Tony's still not completely sold on school anyway, instead wanting to start-up STARK ENTERPRISES, but Bruce has him convinced that he can definitely do school as like a side thing.

The rest of the seniors at SHIELD are in a constant state of elation or panic that is starting to make Clint nauseous. That is, until an envelope arrives in the mail with his name on it.

He gets into the same school as Natasha, NYU, and even though he's got little interest in the program, she'll be there every day which means they get to stay together.

It's worth it just for that, he tells himself.

Phil is just thrilled by the news and though Clint wants it to be good news, the way Natasha watches him over their celebratory dinner that night makes the butterflies in his gut flutter.

 . . .

She stays quiet about it until later that night, when they're wrapped up in bed together. Then she rolls towards him, taking his hand in hers. She studies his fingers for a long time, measuring her hand up against his.

"Clint," she says quietly, eventually, just when he think she might not say anything at all. She skims her fingers over his palm, then finds his eyes with her own. "Are you happy?"

His jaw unhinges and his brows thread together. "What?"

"I just . . . can't help but feel that you're settling for something just because it keeps us together."

He startles, looking over at her with wide eyes. "Well, you know that's important to me—the fact that we're together. Maybe the most important thing. I thought it was for you too?"

"It is, but—"

"But?"

She takes a deep breath and holds it, building up some kind of argument, though it doesn't come out like that. It's gentle and calm. "I can't be the only thing you want in the world, Clint. I know how much you mean to me, so I get it, but there has to be other things you want just as bad. Things you want to do with your life? Things you want to see."

"Tash, I never thought I'd even finish high school, let alone apply to college."

She sits up suddenly. "But you are, and you have. So now what?"

He presses up on his hands, sliding against the headboard. "Now . . . now I don't know! That's my problem. You are the only thing I see in my future. Everything else is just . . . it's just—" He sighs, frustrated, rubbing his hands over his face.

"What if you had never met me?" she asks. "What if I had never moved here? Never came to SHIELD? What would you decide to do?"

"I'd probably work at the diner until Phil decided to kick me out. Then . . . I don't know. I'm not much good at anything besides putting an arrow through a target and that skill died out when they invented guns."

"That's a lie, Clint, and you know it. You're good at lots of things." He snorts but she takes his hands, pulling them into her lap. "You are," she insists, imploring him. "You're strong and brave and fiercely loyal. You stand up for people. You look out for them, even when they don't always deserve it. You're fair. You make the hard decisions. And you've seen stuff in your life that most people will never face. Don't underestimate any of that."

"That all sounds pretty now, Tash. But those things don't translate. Not the way Tony's smarts do or Steve's art. The way you dance or the way you pick up languages. It's not even like Bucky's knack for repairing drywall."

She sighs, long and breathy. "I just want you to be happy, Clint. And following me to New York to go to a school you don't want to be at isn't going to do that."

"So what are you saying? That you don't want me to come to New York with you?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying. I'm saying, go where you'll be happy. If that's in New York, then that's great, but if it's not, if you choose something else, we'll make it work. You don't have to sacrifice one for the other. You can have me and do something you really want to do."

Clint flops back on the pillow, hands behind his head. "Not following you to New York feels too much like letting you go."

"We've been through too much to let go now," Natasha says. "But that doesn't mean we need to hold on so tightly. You're allowed to dream, Clint. And when you find it, when you reach it, you can come back and I'll be here waiting because I'm still sure of you."

He squeezes her hand, and though she's said everything right. Promised him he won't lose her to this next step, he feels nothing but unease in his gut. Nothing but a strange warring that builds up in his chest.

He doesn't want to go to NYU.

He wants a tiny apartment with purple bedsheets and Natasha snuggled up next to him every night. But a business degree? He doesn't want that. It's not what he really wants out of life.

He wants Natasha, yes, but why did that mean he had to settle for four years in a classroom being lectured at? Why did it mean a bachelor's degree in something he hated?

He could have both, couldn't he? Natasha and a job he loved. Something that would make him happy. Intrigue him.

He liked to help people. She was right about that.

And he'd worked so hard to set himself straight. To put himself on a path, leaving the crime behind.

He liked that too. Being able to change. Being able to make difference.

One that kept people safe. People like Natasha.

That's all he wanted really. To keep the people he loved safe.

He sits up again then, so fast it knocks Natasha over. She recovers as he's scrambling out of bed. "Where are you going?"

"To find my laptop."

"What for?"

"I've got to send an email."

"What? Now? It's almost midnight."

He stops, retraces his steps and leans over the bed to give her a smacking kiss. He pulls away and grins. "Yes now."

He could have both. _He could._


	13. Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Clint makes life decisions, Barney's still causing problems, and Bucky offers to cut out Tony's tongue.

The first thing Clint does when he tiptoes his way downstairs to the kitchen is sit down with his laptop and do some research. Despite the fact it's about one in the morning, he's engrossed, following links, scribbling down that names of programs and deadlines, and by the time he's getting ready to shut things down, Phil is wandering down the stairs, flattening his tie against his pressed, white shirt.

"Clint?" he says, blinking like it might be an allusion.

Clint scrambles to stand, wincing with an exhaustion he's only now noticing in his muscles and bones.

"Have you been up all night?" Phil asks, coming over and wrapping a hand over his shoulder. He studies him the way Fury does when he knows he's lying.

Clint rubs his hand over his face, massaging his eyes. "Yeah, I just . . . I realized something last night. Natasha and I talked for a while about, you know, the future and what she wants and what I want."

"And is everything okay?" Phil asks, looking slightly worried.

"I think it is," Clint says, closing the lid on his laptop, still frozen on the page for the NYPD applications. He offers Phil a tired smile. "I'm gunna head up to bed for a few hours. Probably won't see you at breakfast."

"Alright," Phil relents as Clint pads away down the hall. "But if you need to talk I'm here."

"I know." Clint gives a tired wave over his shoulder. "Thanks."

The stairs to the attic are like hiking a mountain and when Clint gets to the top he practically tips into bed. He slides in behind Natasha, pressing a kiss into her hair, inhaling deep and getting a nose full of vanilla. It's soothing in the most wonderful way and he settles down against the pillow. For her part, Natasha stirs long enough to drag his arm over her waist and he tucks himself closer to her, feeling, for the first time in a long time, like he knows where his life is headed.

. . .

When Clint finally drags himself out of bed that Saturday afternoon, he's amazed to see that he already has a response to the email he sent to Detective Wilson. He's answered a bunch of his questions, put him in touch with a recruiting agent, and offered to give him a reference.

The next thing Clint does is make another appointment with Fury. This time he's oddly excited and his questions are eager and he thinks maybe Fury can tell because he quirks his lips up before handing him another brochure.

"This seems like a good fit, Barton."

"I think so, sir."

"What did Phil say?"

Clint bites his lip. "I haven't really told him yet. I mean, I told him that I'd talked to Natasha and we'd figured some things out, but . . ." he pauses ". . . I don't know, I just don't want to get everyone's hopes up before I get in."

Fury nods. "Understood. I'll keep this between us then, until you decide to tell him. But I don't think you have anything to worry about." He smiles then, for real, rearranging the pens on his desk. "That girl really is good for you."

"She is," Clint agrees, grabbing his bag and nodding to Fury. "Thanks. I've got one last application to finish. I'll see you later, sir."

He takes the packet and as the bell rings and people start filing out of the school, Clint heads into the library and fills out the application. He swings by the post office on his way home and mails it, this time a different kind of relief blossoming in his chest: one full of excitement and nerves and maybe just the tiniest bit of hope.

After that, there are more appointments with Fury—like three of them—to iron out details, and Phil's been all over him because he's declined to accept his first offer to NYU.

Clint doesn't tell him why just yet because everything's still up in the air and he can tell that Phil's panicking slightly because he fumbles with his tie every time he brings it up and Clint declines to talk about it. It takes Clint about a month to get himself organized, which, considering the fact he's made a spontaneous last minute decision as to what he's going to do with the rest of his life, is pretty reasonable.

But it also means the end of April is in sight.

And as it draws to a close he gets a brown envelope in the mail, postmarked from a college in New York. He stands in the attic, his hands shaking as he rips into the package, drawing out the cover letter. When he sees the word CONGRATULATIONS he collapses onto the bed, a nervous rush escaping his lungs.

Natasha walks in then, dragging her backpack by one strap. She drops it with a tired sigh by her desk, but stops when she notices him.

"Everything okay?" she asks, head tipped in a way that scatters hair across her face.

"I got in," Clint says, but it's barely a whisper, so different than the excited fluttering he feels beating in his chest.

"In?" she says, dropping down on the bed beside him and taking the paper from his hands, scanning the college admission letter. Her eyes stop on the program: POLICE FOUNDATIONS. They hover there for a minute in silence.

"Clint?"

"I know I didn't exactly tell you and I'm sorry," he rushes to say, "but I . . . I wasn't sure it would all pan out. I applied right at the cut off and it still doesn't mean anything. I mean, they can't hire me until I'm at least twenty-one and there's still the whole application that I have to do for the New York Police Department and all the testing, but one of the requirements is at least two years of schooling—I need to complete 60 credits, so I have to start somewhere, right?" He sucks in a breath through his nose. "And plus the college offers a bridging program with NYU so if I wanted to I could do a four year bachelors in criminology and only have to go for three years. It's definitely a leg up if I ever want to think about being a Detective, you know get off the streets, be something more than a beat cop. I talked to Detective Wilson a bit and he recommended that I do whatever schooling I want to get done before applying to the academy. He said it gets harder to go back once you're in because it's so busy. But I . . ." he takes a deep breath and tries to relax, grabbing her hand to thread his fingers in between hers. She squeezes and he takes it as a good sign. "You told me to find something else that I wanted. And I think . . . I think this might be it."

"Clint—" she says again, trialing off, the paper still held in her hand. "Clint, this is . . . this is wonderful," she tells him. "I've never seen you so passionate about something?"

His smile is brilliant. He didn't know how much her approval meant to him until this moment. How much Natasha being on board was everything to him. His cheeks start to ache with the weight of his smile so he keeps talking. "Detective Wilson's giving me a great reference. Putting my name in there already looks good. I'm going to slowly start my application process, too. Start getting the medical and the physicals out of the way." He lets go of her hand and reaches up to run his thumb along her cheekbone. "The best part about all of this is that it keeps me in the city, which means we get to stay together."

She smiles, turning her face to press a kiss to his palm. "I like that part," she whispers.

"Me too."

. . .

At the end of the first week of May Clint takes the van into New York one Friday right after school.

The testing center isn't crowded, but there's a variety of people huddled on benches and tucked into cubicles doing last minute prep. Most of them are men, but there are still a good bunch of women and that makes him smile. In some other lifetime he thinks Natasha would make a good cop. Her hand to hand sparring's got so good that Steve refuses to hit the mat for fear she'll break his fingers.

Clint takes a seat on an empty bench until the room opens up and the test begins.

He chooses a desk in the back, opting for the far left corner.

When the timer begins he flips over his test. NYPD ENTRANCE EXAM is written across the top.

When he's finished he takes his test up to the woman at the front. He's ten minutes early and there's the mad scramble of pencils behind him.

She reaches out for his test and smiles around wire rimmed glasses. "We'll let you know," she tells him.

He thanks her and drives home.

Two weeks later, somewhere around the middle of May, he receives notice that he's passed the entrance examination and they want him to start the next steps, starting with a physical. Now it all starts to feel a bit more real.

He's standing in his room when he opens the letter, and Tony looks over at him when he whoops, throwing his arm into the air.

"Good news?" Tony assumes.

"Yeah, man."

"Awesome. Which one is peach?"

"Huh?" Clint looks over to see Tony holding up two ties. "What for?"

"Steve needs a peach tie. I said he could borrow mine. But now I forget which one is peach and which one is coral."

"Does it matter?"

"Duh? Clint, it's for prom!"

His legs go a little weak with that and he collapses onto his bed. "Shit."

"Don't tell me you forgot," Tony sighs, letting the ties fall down to his side. "Man, this is Natasha's PROM!"

"Dude, no, I didn't forget." Clint ruffles the hair at the base of his neck. "I just forgot that it's in like two weeks. It's fine. There's still time."

Tony quirks an eyebrow at him. "Well you better get on that, or you know, she might just leave you here to rot in the diner after all."

With that Clint points out the peach tie, shoves the letter into his back pocket, and races downstairs. He finds Natasha in the diner wiping down tables. It's almost eight o'clock and the dinner guests are slowing down, just a few stragglers coming in for coffee and a piece of pie.

He slips up behind her, putting his hand between her shoulder blades. She startles at the touch, but only until she looks over her shoulder and spies him there.

"Hey," he says.

"Hello, you." She stands up to meet him for a kiss, sliding the five dollar tip she just made off the table into the front pocket of his jeans. She lets her fingers linger there just long enough to be a distraction.

She grins when his eyes flutter closed and he has to shake off the dizzy feeling that fills his head. "Guess . . . guess what?" he stutters.

"What?" Natasha laughs.

"I passed my NYPD entrance exam. They want me to come in for a physical next."

"Oh, Clint! I'm so happy for you." She jumps to reach around his neck and he hugs her, gathering her up into his arms and letting every good thing he's felt in the past couple weeks come flooding through him.

"Thanks," he whispers against her neck. "Oh, also, will you go to prom with me?"

She pulls back, hands on his shoulders, to peer at him. ". . . Clint?"

"I was going to do something special, but then I figured you'd probably punch me if I made it a big deal at school." He drops his hands to her waist and gives it a squeeze.

Her lips curl up in response. "Yes I would have. And I will. I'm glad you didn't make me embarrass myself in front of our entire grade."

"Yeah, well, I figured Steve and Bucky can have the monopoly on that. But if you want me to ask formally, in front of people, I will stand on the counter in the diner tomorrow during breakfast and serenade you?"

Natasha bites her lip. "Though I imagine it would be very good, and all the old women would approve, please don't. This was perfect. It was very _us_. Plus I already figured we were going." She shrugs. "I kind of bought our tickets."

Clint laughs, shaking his head. "God, I love you." He leans in to press a kiss to her cheek, leaving a blush behind. "So, what colour tie am I wearing?"

Natasha runs her hands along his shoulders, locking her hands behind his neck as she tips her head and regards him with a wry smile. "Well, my dress is purple, so you can do with that what you will."

"Then I will acquire a tie of the exact same shade," he kisses the tip of her nose, "or at least close enough that the average population can't tell the difference."

"Did Tony ask you to pick out the peach tie, too?"

Clint laughs. "Yes."

Natasha rolls her eyes, swaying a bit on her feet. "Well, passed exams, prom proposals . . . I think this all calls for celebration pie. Stay?"

Clint nods, letting her go. He slides into a booth as she disappears with an empty coffee pot to go and secure pie (with extra whip cream because it's Natasha).

He's grinning like a fool again, staring at his hands, reminding himself to breathe. He doesn't remember a moment when he's been this happy. Or this . . .  _relieved_. But as he looks up and out the window, scanning the parking lot, wondering if Natasha will get off early tonight, he does a double take.

The last of the evening's sun is bright between the evergreens and he's not exactly sure, but for a split second he thinks he sees him . . .  _Barney_ . . .  standing at the edge of the laneway. But when he looks again, he's gone. _He's imagined it_ , he thinks.

But then it's there, that nagging feeling at the back of his neck, like a needle, itching under his skin, just sharp enough to prick.

He glances up at the counter quickly, seeing Natasha still busy, and without thinking too hard about what this might be, he stands and disappears out the front door, the jingle of the bell the only sign he was there.

He walks the length of the diner and around the side to the back of the garage.

That's where he finds him, huddled between the trash bins.

_Barney. What the hell?_

He's dirty and unhinged. Skinny as anything. When's the last time he ate, Clint wonders idly. In that moment, he feels a million emotions bubble up in his throat and for a second, that split instant where Barney looks up and makes eye contact, he's completely frozen, seemingly unable to voice any of the feelings. But then he surprises himself and says: "You can't be here." He swallows the lump in his throat. "You're not _supposed_ to be here. I'll have to tell them, you know."

His hands start to shake and he settles them against his thighs, rubbing at the fabric of his jeans.

Barney looks at him quick then away again, jerking his head. "I know. I'll be gone before they come."

It sounds sort of like a promise. Like he means to say that he'll be out of Clint's hair as soon as . . .

"Can you spot me some change?"

 . . . as soon as that.

But instead of the irritation he expects, all Clint feels is tears prick at the back of his eyes as he digs in his pockets, pulling out the five Natasha shoved there and a bunch of loose change. "You have to go," he grits out as he hands it over to Barney.

"I know. I'm going." Barney's eyes flick up once more. "It's good to see you."

"Yeah," Clint mutters, pulling his head around. "I'll give you a five minute head start."

He turns and walks away, dragging himself back towards the diner. Every step feels wrong and heavy and like far too much work.

When he reaches the door he steps inside and just has to lean against it for a moment. Just to get his bearings again.

Clint closes his eyes, still fighting back tears. He hasn't seen or heard from Barney in weeks, and despite the fact the police have been looking for him, that thought had been unnerving. There were nights filled with cold sweats where he'd wake up wondering if he made the wrong call. Wondering if Barney was huddled under some bridge somewhere while he gets to sit pretty with more food than he could ever eat and a job and Natasha and . . . but he lit the friggen' diner on fire . . . he could have hurt people . . . _aw hell._

Clint pops his eyes open and spies Natasha over by the new bay windows, working her charm on an elderly couple. He uses the moment to escape the front end.

Avoiding Phil's office, he makes his way back inside the house and parks it at the kitchen table in front of the math book he abandoned when he came home from school earlier.

He counts out another minute before pulling his phone out and a contact card.

He dials and counts the space in between his breaths.

When Detective Wilson picks up Clint says: "Barney was here."

The conversation is short, but full of information, and part of Clint is surprised when he finds himself divulging details he hadn't even realized would be important. Things he hadn't even realized he'd noticed.

When he hangs up he squeezes his fist around his phone before launching his math book across the kitchen table, storming out of the room, and past a worried looking Phil.

. . .

"Do you want to talk about it?" Phil asks him a few minutes later when he finds him tying up garbage bags in the garage.

Clint shrugs, refusing to look at Phil who still hovers in the doorway. "I saw Barney."

There's a pause.

"Did you call Detective Wilson?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

Clint sighs and collapses down on the steps by Phil's feet. He joins him after a moment.

"It literally just happened," Clint explains. "I haven't even told Natasha yet." He rubs his hands over his knees, dropping his forehead down against his legs. "I can't take care of him."

He feels Phil's hand in the middle of his back and for some reason it grounds him. "You don't have to. He's an adult, Clint."

"But he's not. He doesn't know how to be."

"He'll figure it out. Or he won't. What matters is you, Clint. Don't let Barney drag you down. You've done so well for yourself these last few years." Phil swallows, rubbing a path between Clint's shoulder blades. "I know you haven't accepted your offer to NYU yet and I know it's stressful, dealing with your brother and trying to make decisions about life but—"

"I applied to police foundations, Phil. Got in. That's why I haven't accepted NYU yet. I guess I'm not going to now."

"You . . . what?" Phil says, voice uncharacteristically soft. He's genuinely shocked.

"I'm gunna be a police officer. At least, that's the plan. I wrote my NYPD entrance exam a few weeks ago. Just got notification today that I passed, so this is where it starts."

"Clint, that's . . . what can I say? That's amazing!"

Phil pulls him in for a hug, crushing Clint's shoulders, and regardless of Barney, he knows this is the right thing. He knows what he wants now and he's not going to let his brother's mistakes derail him. Not anymore.

"So, pie?" Phil says, pulling away with a giant smile. "I think this calls for a celebration."

Clint laughs. "I think Natasha was working on it actually. We should probably go before Steve and Bucky show up. There'll be nothing left. She was even breaking out the extra whip cream."

Phil chuckles. "That girl has an unhealthy addiction to canned sugar products."

"Tell me about it. I haven't had a pizza without pineapple on it for a year."

"I thought you liked pineapple?"

"I like Natasha," Clint says, a warm bubble of affection blossoming in his chest. "The canned fruit I could do without."

"She really is something, isn't she?"

"Yeah, she is," Clint agrees, walking into the diner to find Tony, Steve and Bucky piled into one of the larger booths, already fighting over plates. Natasha stands there with the whip cream bottle, licking the tip of her finger.

She grins as they approach, the word CONGRATS written in fancy letters across the top of a cherry pie. It's been warmed up and the letters are melting, but it's perfect and Natasha giggles when Clint presses his lips to hers; it's flirty and warm and everything they usually aren't in public.

"C'mon, man," Tony complains. "Sit down already. Natasha threatened to cut our fingers off if we started without you."

"Only your thumbs," she points out, sliding in beside Phil, Clint crowding her other side. "And those aren't technically fingers."

"Semantics," Tony mumbles, scooping out heaping pieces of pie from the tin and dropping them on plates.

Bucky mutters in Russian, making Natasha smirk, and Tony glares daggers to the side. "What was that Iron Fist? Did you say something?"

Bucky shovels a piece of pie in his mouth and shrugs.

"He said I could always cut out your tongue," Natasha supplies with a grin, licking off the edge of her fork and Clint can tell Tony's trying really hard to glare at her too.

He turns his attention back to Bucky instead. "I can always program your arm to punch you in the face, you know?"

"Promises, promises," Bucky mutters, prompting them all to laugh.

"Well, on another note," Phil says, "I think I can speak for all of us when I say well done, Clint. It'll be nice to have a cop in the family."

"Right!" Tony says immediately. "So you think once you make it you can do something about all my unpaid speeding tick—"

"What unpaid speeding tickets?" Phil demands.

"Kidding," Tony says, patting Phil's hand. "Don't have a heart attack. But seriously, Steve's got a few that—"

"Tony!"

Warm cherry steam fills the booth and as everyone launches into conversation at once (including some rough housing with Bucky offering to cut out Tony's tongue for real), Clint can't help but feel that things will be okay. They might not be perfect, but the Barney thing will work itself out like everything else. Plus Barney isn't his priority. That's up to the police. Finding a purple tie on the other hand, that's definitely on his to-do list. And he has less than two weeks to do it.

He grins at Natasha around a fork-full of pie.

And this time he won't forget the corsage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks soooo much for reading. And as always, I love to hear what you think!
> 
> On a side note, we've hit the home stretch now.
> 
> Only two more chapters to go and then we'll be closing the book on this universe for good.
> 
> Aggh, I can't believe we're almost at the end . . . my babies (wipes tear) are all grown up!


	14. Divided We Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where there's a prom with all the great prom cliches, Tony takes a date, but it's not who you think, and Clint thought only weddings got crashed, but apparently not.

The Friday of prom sneaks up on them faster than Clint expects. It's been a hellish two weeks in the diner and he's just barely managed to drag himself to the mall for a purple tie and to the florist to place the order for the corsage.

The warm weather has struck with a vengeance and the newly finished university students have finally crawled their way out of their dorm rooms and started roaming the country on those youthful road trips that are post marked by diner hopping.

Because of this the diner is stuffed with rowdy, caffeine-addled, twenty-somethings all the time (and Natasha thought _he_ had a coffee addiction). With the start of the tourist season and gearing up for final exams in a few weeks, they've been stretched for staff and Phil's been forced to hire again.

It's not exactly a bad thing, seeing as most of them won't be here come September (gosh that's a scary thought) and Phil will have to replace them (for the school year at least). There have been a few new additions that Clint honestly doesn't mind. There's a dark haired chick with chipped black nail polish that knows how to hack a computer system better than Tony—says her name's Daisy, but she writes Skye on her nametag, so Clint's not entirely sure, but she's a sophomore at SHIELD and quick with numbers.

Natasha also likes her because she's snarky with Tony in the best possible way and steals his customers. She also saw her grab a handsy college guy by the scruff of the neck and threaten to impale him with his fork, so Clint can understand her appreciation.

There's also a British dude that gets on well with Peggy—goes by Hunter—who's on some sort of school exchange program that's taken up with Sam in the kitchen. He's a little crude, so it's probably best he works in the back, but he can fry like it's nobody's business. Also, Clint's pretty sure he's seen him in town, hanging around Bobbi, and despite the fact they didn't work out, Bobbi's a good person and she wouldn't settle for just anyone, so Hunter must alright. Deep down. Underneath all the sarcasm.

Clint clocks out from his shift at exactly noon that day—the same time a white delivery van pulls into the parking lot. He was really only wasting time until the flowers got here.

He meets the delivery guy in the driveway and tips him with one of the fives he picked up off a table this morning.

There's a pretty corsage all wrapped up in a neat little box and a bouquet of white and purple lilies. They smell real nice and Clint takes a moment to just inhale before he makes his way back through the diner, hands in the air to avoid having the flowers tossed across the room.

He's waited all morning for them to arrive and he doesn't want them to end up as somebody's salad.

The regulars give him knowing smiles; they _oooh_ and _aww_ and probably reminisce as he passes, and Phil nods in approval when he finally reaches the counter, placing a tall crystal vase beside him.

"Cut the stems a bit before you put them in water," he advises. "They'll last longer."

"Right," Clint says.

He fills the vase with water in the kitchen, tucks the flowers in gently, his head swimming with the scent, and then slips back into the house to find Natasha.

She's already in the shower when he reaches the attic, her dress tossed over the back of her desk chair for later. There are sets of heels scattered across the room—she finally decided on the nude pair last night—and various shades of eye shadow and lipstick lining the dresser top. She's been experimenting with Peggy for the better part of a week and he's unknowingly gone to school with the imprint of her lips on his jaw in PURPLE SUNSET or CHERRY BOMB on several occasions.

The dark red lip gloss is his favourite on her but he's wisely kept his mouth shut because he knows how girls can get with prom; at least, that's what Tony's warned him about, though he doesn't think Natasha's that bad. She knows what she likes.  Plus she looks good in everything, and he doesn't just think that because she's his girlfriend. Natasha is beautiful. She downplays it most of the time, pulling her hair back in a ponytail and forgoing makeup, but her features are defined and when she dresses up . . . well, she doesn't have to try very hard.

So despite the explosion of _girl_ currently going on in the room, he's not worried about tonight. In fact, he was more concerned about whether or not he had a pair of matching socks. Good thing Phil took care of that.

Clint makes room on the dresser top and places the vase in the center, angling the flowers just right. The bathroom door open in a puff of steam and Natasha emerges, dressed in sweats, toweling off the ends of her hair. Her eyes grow wide at the sight of him fixing the flowers and she stops in the doorway, head tilted.

"Are those for me?" she asks with a coy smile.

Clint stuffs his hands in his pockets and leans back on his heels. "Well, I tried to give them to Tony, but he's not really a flower kind of guy."

"Should have tried scrap metal," she teases. She crosses the room and leans over the dresser to press her nose into the bouquet. There's a beat where she just breathes deeply, finally breaking off with a sigh. "Clint, they're beautiful." Her smile is beaming when she looks up at him. "Thank you."

"Ah, well, thought they'd make you smile." He holds out his arms and she folds into him immediately, the ends of her hair making his shirt wet.

She steps on her tip-toes to kiss his jaw. "You were right."

He lets her kiss linger for a few moments before turning his head towards her. "You up for a late lunch? This might be the only time we eat today. Dinner is going to be gross prom food."

Natasha takes the towel she tucked under her arm and resumes drying her hair. "Ah, yes, rubber chicken and chalk potatoes. The quintessential prom experience."

Clint feels his lips curl up. Having Sam cook for them all the time has made him into a food snob, which he's only now realizing. "I still think Phil should have catered."

"That would have been nice, but it would have been too much work. We're so short staffed when all of us are busy."

Clint shrugs. "Oh, well. It's classic, I guess. At least the punch will be spiked."

"Gotta give Rumlow something to do," Natasha mutters.

Clint snickers. "I just want him to hit on Darcy again. The taser missed him by an inch last time we had a dance."

"I really wish you wouldn't encourage her. She's going to end up in jail. Or something worse."

"What's worse than jail?"

"I don't know; she'll run for governor or something."

"My God, can you imagine? Darcy in charge of government?"

"Yes. She'd give every girl a taser."

Clint shrugs. "That might not be a bad thing."

"Trust me; Darcy with too much power is something no one wants to see. It'd be like Tony, but worse. She'd take over the world."

"Heard my name, what'd I do?"

Clint turns his head to find Tony leaning in the doorway.

Natasha smirks at him. "Nothing yet, but never say never."

"You got that right, Red. The night's still young."

Clint rolls his eyes. "The night hasn't even started yet. It's two in the afternoon."

"Speaking of which, Phil says that the pizza's here. You should come down and eat before the two man demo crew plows through it."

"Bucky's here?" Natasha says. "Already?"

"Yeah, Bruce is on his way over, too. Thor's just gunna meet us there. Apparently Jane had a dress emergency. He's driving her and Darcy to the mall now."

"Yikes," Clint says.

"Oh, please. It’s not that bad. Jane's very practical," Natasha say matter of factly. She drops the towel in the hamper on her way out the door. Tony hangs back so Clint shrugs his shoulders in silent askance.

"Phil says he wants to talk to us," Tony explains. "Just the guys."

"About what?"

"I don't know, this and that. It's prom, so I'm guessing something about safety or etiquette or, you know, not making him a grandpa yet."

"Are you kidding me?" Clint hisses. "We're getting a sex talk?"

Tony nods, eyes wide. "A group sex talk."

Clint feels his whole body wince. "Awesome."

"Hey, at least I pre-warned you. I'm just gunna let Steve suffer. I like to watch his face turn into a tomato."

. . .

As it turns out, sex talks with Phil are the worst part of the pre-prom craziness.

And it's really as bad as Clint imagines.

Tony rubs his chin and nods far too seriously.

Steve goes past tomato and straight to beet red.

Phil has to clear his throat seven times.

Clint just prays for it to be over.

Then it is and they flee the office like stampeding buffalo, covering up the awkwardness by stuffing themselves with way too much pizza (seriously, Clint wonders if he'll still be able to do up his dress pants up).

By the time they finish eating and goofing around (which includes hazy stories dating back to Sam's own prom night and an epic round of Mario-Kart) it's pushing five o'clock and Phil ushers them all upstairs to get ready because prom starts at seven.

Natasha disappeared an hour earlier to do her hair, so by the time Clint makes his way to the attic, she's almost ready.

She spies him in the bathroom mirror where she's leaning close to put her earrings in—blocky, little crystals that sparkle when she turns her head too quickly. When they're righted she straightens, running her hands down her front. "Everything okay?" she asks. "You guys were down there for a while."

Clint opens his mouth to say _Mario Kart,_ but it never leaves his brain, or his mouth, just gets clogged somewhere inside his head because all he can do is stare.

She's slipped into her dress already and boy does she look good.

It hugs her bust in lacy purple satin, then drapes in layers of fabric to her feet. She's got her heels on, too, probably so the dress doesn't drag, which will make her tall enough to peck her lips against his without having to stretch.

"Yeah, uh, just . . ." Clint stutters his way back to reality. "Holy wow, you look great."

Natasha adjusts the strap on her shoulder and looks up from the mirror, focusing beyond herself on his star-struck expression and the corner of her mouth lifts into a gentle smile. "Holy wow?" she repeats, chuckling a bit, but if he's not mistaken the tops of her cheeks pink just a little.

"Finish zipping me?" she asks, gesturing to the back of the dress.

He does, stepping forward and letting his knuckles drag along her spine. At the top he presses a kiss to her neck and then moves her hair back in place. She's left it long and curly for the night, natural.

"Almost ready?" he asks.

"Just have to finish my make-up. You better go get your suit on. We have to leave soon."

He nods at her reflection, but spares one more second to look her up and down before turning on his heel and racing back downstairs.

 _Boys are so much easier_ , he thinks, appreciating how fast he slips into his suit. Shirt. Pants. Tucked. Tie. Jacket. Check the fit. He looks alright. No, actually, he looks _damn good_. Throw some gel through the hair. Done. Oh wait, socks and shoes. Ugh, he hates dress shoes.

He comes back up the attic stairs just as she's finishing her lipstick.

"That was fast," she says, rubbing her pinky against her lips. It's the dark red colour that he loves and his heart flutters in his chest.

"That's my favourite on you."

"I know," she says, mouth quirking into a smile.

"You do?"

"Why do you think I chose it?"

He steps behind her and after wiping her hand on a towel, she turns into his arms. Her eyes are lined in black, with smoky shades of grey lifting off the lid. The mascara makes her eyelashes longer and fuller and if he wasn't worried about messing up her lipstick he'd kiss the hell out of her right now because those red, _red_ lips are so damn tempting.

It's a feeling that's ignited in the depths of his belly, hot and twisting.

"You can kiss me," she says, eyebrow arching knowingly. "I bought one that won't transfer."

"Oh, thank god!"

His hands shoot up to cup her face, tipping her head just right. He wants to crash their lips together; to smother whatever this spark is that's just erupted between them. But he doesn't. He fits his lips against hers, like he has a thousand times before, and it's different. Every time. Kissing Natasha is something he'll never get tired of. Something that makes his skin tingle.

He's gentle as he moves his lips, skimming hers with a softness that startles a sigh from her.

Hands sneak up the front of his jacket to hook onto his lapels, hauling him closer, and the kiss devolves into something more urgent, something that has him pulling at her hips, afraid he'll never be able to get close enough. It becomes teeth and tongue and small nips against his bottom lip that make him gasp and her chuckle. The sound shoots right through him and he lets out a groan.

When they finally break apart, she's breathing heavy and he collapses on the side of her bed, staring at her with what feels like a dopey grin.

He always balked at the idea of a kiss making you breathless. It wasn't until Natasha that he found out it was true. That the sheer pleasure of being this close to someone you care so much for, that having so many feelings, could literally leave you winded.

"Clint?"

"Hmm?"

"What's this?" she asks as she pulls a condom out of his jacket pocket, holding it between two fingers.

"Oh, Phil made the rounds, handed out condoms. That's what that secret talk was before pizza."

"I didn't get any?" she says.

"I think he was too embarrassed to talk to you about sex. Plus he figures if I'm covered than you're covered."

She laughs. "Was that supposed to be a pun?"

Clint smirks as she drops it on the night table. "I don't know, was it punny?"

She sighs at him. "Phil should really just employ Tony for these instances. He's very good at it."

"And you're beautiful," he says, reaching up to brush his thumb down her temple.

"Nice segway," she murmurs. "But I have to admit, you do look quite handsome in your suit."

He waves his hand at her. "You're just saying that."

She snorts, stepping into the space between his legs. "You're such a dork." She grabs his chin between her fingers, tipping it up and kisses him once more, hard and smacking. "There," she whispers. "That'll have to hold you until after pictures."

"Aw, Phil wants pictures?"

"Of course Phil wants pictures. When does he not want pictures?"

"True story. Alright," Clint sighs. "Let's go."

As they walk down the stairs, hand in hand because Clint can't resist, he catches a glimpse of them in the hall mirror. And they just look right together. "I did good with the tie, huh?"

"You did," she agrees easily because it matches her dress perfectly and he saw it for maybe thirty seconds before tonight. "Though with your eyesight I wouldn't have expected anything less."

They reach the living room at the same time as Phil emerges from the basement with the camera and he ushers them all out to the back porch. Tony's the last one to reach the deck and he tucks a pair of shades over his eyes, blocking out the sun.

"Tony, really?" Phil says.

"It's my prom look, Phil. Don't hate on me."

"I want to see your eyes in one picture, Tony, for the love of god."

"Fine, but I'll be all old man squinty. You'll see."

The photo session is actually better than Clint expects because mostly they just goof around and Phil takes inconspicuous snap shots that are liable to show up sometime later as blackmail.

Just before they head out Phil hands the camera to Steve and tells him to get some photos with Thor and the rest of the group.

Tony puts his glasses back on and holds his hand out to Phil expectantly.

"What?"

"You promised I could drive Lola to prom."

Phil splutters, grabbing the deck railing for support. "What? No I didn't. Absolutely not."

"Yes you did," Tony argues. "Exactly four hundred and seventeen days ago."

"When?"

"You wrecked that chocolate cake Sam was baking because you fiddled with the oven timer. I saw you and you promised if I didn't say anything that I could drive Lola to prom. I held up my end of the bargain, now you."

"Oh my god," Phil sighs, hand hovering over his mouth in genuine shock. Maybe fear. "I'd forgotten."

"This is better than a soap opera," Clint mutters to Natasha.

"C'mon, Phil. I already don't have a date. Pepper doesn't do proms anymore. You gunna take away the car too?"

"Tony—"

"Look, I even wore a tie to match."

"He's pouting," Natasha whispers and Clint kind of wants someone to start recording.

But then Phil's saying things that don't make sense and Clint has to use all his brain power to focus.

"I swear to god, if she comes home with even a scratch you'll never see daylight again," Phil says and Tony balks, taking his glasses back off to eye Phil properly.

"Holy shit, you're saying yes?"

"I'm saying yes."

"What just happened?" Tony asks, looking at them all as Phil disappears inside to get his keys. "Someone take notes. The world must be ending or something."

 Phil returns and presses the keys into Tony's palm. "I mean it."

"Right-o, Philip. So, who's coming with me? Bruce obviously, you're my date." Bruce face-palms at that (mutters "Oh, boy!"). "Only room for two more, so you love bird couples will have to wrestle for it. My money's on Natasha, though. How do you even walk in those things?"

Natasha whispers in Clint's ear, something about wrecking her hair if Tony drives with the top down and he will, because he's Tony and Clint's not sure he wants to be in Lola while Tony's behind the wheel. So he nods to Steve and Bucky. "You two take it. We'll drive the van."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," Clint says. "We can swap later."

So it's settled like that and Tony's mildly disappointed that he doesn't get to watch anyone wrestle, but then he's backing Lola out of the garage and Phil's _glaring_ at him like it's his daughter Tony's taking to prom, so that shuts him up.

They drive to the school behind Tony who goes twenty and Clint's worried someone's going to rear-end them. They've already been honked at twice, but Phil's parting words had been something along the lines of burying Tony in a shallow grave if anything happens to the car so, eh, Clint can't blame him.

When they get to the school the parking lot is teeming with guys in black suits and girls in various shades of pink. Apparently it's a popular colour this year. Natasha just smirks because apparently she knew enough not to wear pink.

Tony parks at the far end of the lot where no is parking; they all get out—adjust their ties and in Natasha's case, her skirt—and meet Thor and Jane and Darcy just inside.

They all have a table together and it's like school, but so much rowdier. The rubber chicken even tastes better than Clint expects.

The real fun doesn't start until the dancing though, because Tony always saves his best moves for the floor. He chicken dances around Bruce's chair until he finally gets up and drags Darcy to the dance floor. Then Tony moves on to Steve and Bucky, strutting and squawking.

Clint pulls Natasha up before Tony can reach them, edging into the crowd between Steve and Bruce. He waits for Thor to spin Jane around a few times, clearing out some room before he really spins Natasha. They've spent so much time down in her dance studio lately that he's actually gotten kind of good. Really good. Like people stare at him and Tony lowers his shades to gawk.

But when the music calms Clint pulls Natasha close and her arms wrap around his neck. They fall in step with each other, a slow spin turning them around the floor, and it's easy, like they've done this one hundred times in one hundred different lifetimes.

"Hey, d'you remember the last dance we were at?" Clint asks.

She lifts her head from his shoulder, swaying as she leans back. "Yeah, your ex tried to make the moves on you while she was drunk."

She says it with a smile so Clint snickers. "I was thinking more about afterwards."

"Oh, you mean when we went back to the diner?"

"Yeah," he snuggles his face closer to hers as the music bleeds into another slow song. "That was our first time together."

She smiles, her lips twisting in a curious way that he likes. "A lot's happened since then, huh?"

"Some of it crazy. But there's been some good, too."

"I'd say so."

"Well, you're still here, so I must be doing something right."

Natasha pauses their slow spinning, stopping them in the middle of the floor. She looks up at him, her eyes glazed over with something serious, as people keep moving around them. Whatever's about to happen Clint feels suspended in the moment, like no matter how fast he tries to move he'll never be able to escape it, even if he wanted to.

"Clint," she says slowly, carefully. Controlled in a way that catches all his attention. "You know I've never settled for you, right? That you've always been this . . ." she swallows hard, eyes pinched as she focuses on the middle of his chest. A laugh bubbles out of her, but it's raw instead of content. "You know, sometimes I think you're much more than I deserve."

"Tash—"

"No, wait." Her hand flattens against his chest, over his heart. "You sell yourself short, Clint Barton. You always have. But you are amazing. And you treat me better than anyone has in my whole life, so don't you go thinking you're lucky to have me, because it's the other way around. I'm the one who's lucky to have you. Even when my life was crazy and messy and I tried to push you away, you stayed. You stayed through everything and I know part of you is still afraid of the future. Of what happens when we leave this place and go out into the real world." She pauses and swallows, the sound loud despite the music and people. "You still think I'll realize there's a whole world out there and that I've just been settling this whole time, but you're wrong, Clint. I want our crummy little apartment in New York together and your purple sheets with the bullseyes even though they're scratchy. I want late nights and too much Chinese food because neither of us can cook a damn without Sam. I want to come home to you at the end of the day and wake up to you the next morning. I want to fight over the dishes and laundry. I want you in my life, Clint. Always."

His heart stutters so hard in his chest that he's worried it might burst out his throat. The only thing he can do is crush her in a hug because his legs feel weak and he's pretty sure she's the only thing holding him up right now. "I never settled for you either, Natasha. And if you want me always, then you have me, because I want you forever."

She nods her head against his jacket, a shudder running through her and he can feel the telltale quake in her shoulders (and here he thought he'd be the one having trouble holding it all together).

"Tash, don't cry," he whispers into her hair. "It's prom. It's supposed to be happy."

"I am happy," she sniffs. She tips her head up to look at him.

"Good," he says before he surges forward and claims her lips in a kiss.

The rest of the night feels different after that. There's some sort of subconscious blanket of relief that's filled him up because the truth was he'd always thought Natasha was too good for him, that he'd stumbled into this relationship out of pure luck, but knowing that she feels the exact same way, has the exact same fears, it eases that worry that she'll just disappear one day. Whatever this was and wherever it was going, they were going together.

With the heavy stuff out of the way, they join the others and the guys take turns dancing with Natasha.

It becomes a sort of contest because she's so very good and everyone else looks kind of stilted next to her, and as it turns out, Bucky's the most graceful of them all, twirling her around the gym until she's laughing so hard her cheeks pink.

After that, Tony returns with a round of punch for everyone and they toast.

As the night winds down Clint pulls Natasha onto the floor for one more dance, this one goofy and fun, and she's breathless beside him as they sway until the music stops.

"Okay, lovebirds," Tony announces. "I'm gunna go find Bruce and then we are out of here! Anyone seen a guy with a green tie wrapped around his head?" he calls into the crowd.

"Did Bruce get into Rumlow's spiked punch?" Clint asks.

"I think a bit before the teachers noticed."

Clint laughs. "I hope someone takes a picture."

"Or forty," Natasha says. "I didn't know he could moonwalk."

"I don't think Bruce knew he could moonwalk either." Clint takes her hand. "C'mon, let's see if Tony will let me drive Lola."

When they get to the parking lot there's people everywhere. Bucky and Steve are hovering by the doors. Bucky lost his jacket early on. It's too constricting with the metal arm, but Clint has to admit he looks good with it draped over his shoulder. Kind of like a rouge James Bond. Plus the long hair is just cool.

Tony's apparently still trying to track down Bruce, so Clint leans against Lola's hood and pulls Natasha against him. "Kissing against a convertible isn't too cliché is it?" he asks.

"Hmm, I don't know, it's prom night. Isn't it supposed to be filled with cliché moments?"

"I suppose it is," he says. He lets his hands skim her waist, pulling her closer. "You okay?" he asks, nose brushing hers. "It got kind of serious in there for a few minutes."

"Yes. Danced out, but very good." She tries to kiss him but he moves his lips to her neck.

She giggles as his hands tighten around her waist.

He laughs, nipping at her lower lip until she finally manages to catch him for a kiss.

Her eyelashes flutter against his cheek bones and he's just starting to think about forgoing the convertible altogether and driving home in the van when suddenly she inhales sharply, eyes narrowing, and he whips his head around to look over his shoulder, spinning as his mouth falls open in shock. Out of the darkness steps:

"Barney? Jesus, what are you doing here?" Clint says, instinct telling him to push Natasha behind him.

She clings to his arm though, both hands wrapped around his bicep. He can feel her breath on the back of his neck and it sends a shiver down his spine.

"I had to see you." Barney gives a vague little nod and when the light catches him, he's a mess. Filthy. Ragged. "Hey, Natasha. You both look good. How was prom?"

"Don't talk to her," Clint all but growls and it's only her hands around his arm that stop him from lunging. "You don't get to talk to us. Not here, like this."

"Alright, fair enough," Barney says, hands held up to diffuse the situation. "But I do need to talk to you, Clint. I need help."

"Like hell you do."

Barney surges forward then, face hardened with anger. "You had this fucking warrant put out on me. I can't go anywhere else!"

"That's not my problem," Clint says. "You did this to yourself."

"No, you did this. I'm your brother. I took care of you after mom and dad died."

"You left me," Clint hisses.

"To try and make some money, Clint! We were hungry!"

"We didn't need Trickshot! There were other ways."

"How Clint? We were just kids. There was nothing else for us. At least until you ran off, got yourself picked up by the state. Turns out you didn't do half bad." Barney makes a lewd, sweeping gesture. "Nice house. Job. A girl."

"Don't talk about her!"

"I kept you off the streets. And you left me to them."

"I didn't!"

"It's the same way you're doing right now. I have nothing. I have no where to go."

"I can't give you any more money, Barn. I won't. You need to turn yourself in."

"Like hell I do."

"You almost killed people," Clint says through his teeth. He takes a step forward and Natasha's grip on his arm tightens. "They're my family!"

"You don't understand what I'm trying to do," Barney sneers, shaking his head. He looks around wildly, like an animal being cornered. "You never did. I'm trying to make it so _we_ can be a family again."

"I don't want that, Barney." Clint takes his phone out of his pocket. "You should leave if you're going to run."

"Calling the cops on me, Clint? Whoa, look who's all grown up now?"

Clint raises the phone to his ear. "Just get out of here." He hasn't dialed yet because his heart's in his throat. He hears footsteps and turns enough to see Steve and Bucky approach.

"Cavalry's here, Clint. You're gunna have to choose," Barney says, eyes narrowing.

Clint can hear the scrape of metal as Bucky's hand curls into a fist and he knows exactly what Barney means. He has to choose. His old family or his new one.

Clint straightens and Barney watches him. Watches as he starts to dial.

"Clint—" he says suddenly and there's desperation in his voice. Torn and broken and pleading. It stills his hand. "Please."

Clint swallows hard. _God dammit, Barney._

"Whoa, evil brother at twelve o'clock," Tony says, skidding to a halt beside Steve. "We all see this right?"

"Clint—"

"You can't do this to me," Clint sighs, letting his eyes flutter closed, focusing on the feel of Natasha at his back.

"You can help me," Barney says and when Clint opens his eyes he looks even more ragged than before.

"I can't," he says. "You're a criminal, Barn. They're looking for you. Just turn yourself in."

"You can't turn your back on me, Clint. I'm your brother."

He shakes his head, slow. Barney has been like an addiction up until now. Worming his way in. Taking hold where he doesn't belong. Stretching the pieces of Clint's heart that didn't know how to let go. But the only way to kick a habit was to go cold turkey. Cut it off at the source.

"I can't," Clint whispers. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, fine. Do what you have to." Barney sniffs, rubbing at his nose with his sleeve, streaking dirt across his face. "But you're gunna regret this, Clint. I swear to God!"

With all eyes on him, Barney takes off into the darkness, disappearing between the trees.

Clint finishes dialing the number before flopping down on the curb, head pillowed on his hand as he waits to be connected.

Natasha sits with him while he calls Detective Wilson.

"I can't anymore," he whispers when he finally hangs up. His head is pillowed against Natasha's shoulder and he wonders if she can feel his tears slide against her collar bone, soaking into the top of her dress.

"I know," she says, stroking her hand against the back of his head. "I know."

The cops show up and will apparently spend the better part of the night canvasing the property. They bring the canine unit and for a few minutes Clint wonders . . . but the chase will turn up empty. Barney's too good. Even for that.

"So now what?" Tony asks, threading his fingers into the collar of his tie to loosen it around his neck.

"Nothing," Steve says. "Everyone back inside. I'm calling Phil."

"I can drive," Clint protests. "I'm fine."

Steve puts his hand on his shoulder. "I'm still calling Phil."

Phil and Sam show up twenty minutes later to drive them all back home. There's some muffled words had with the police, a round of hot chocolate from Sam, and then Natasha's asking him to come to bed to help her with the zipper on her dress. 

They shed their clothes and Clint's in a sort of daze until he crawls into bed and Natasha wraps herself around him. "Stay here," she says, pulling his face to hers. "With me."

"I am," he promises, and despite how shitty he feels about the way tonight ended, he knows it's the truth because this is the family he chose, and whatever Barney drags up from their past doesn't matter anymore because this is the family _he chose._

The night dies down after that and Clint's so exhausted that he doesn't dream. At least, not anything that wakes him up, and whether that's a good sign or a bad sign he's not sure.

But Natasha's asleep, warm against him, and he knows without a doubt that he'd live a hundred life times and chose this, for this moment alone, every single time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omigod!!! One more chapter to go. I am FREAKING out. 
> 
> So, anyway, thanks for reading. I love to hear what you think!


	15. To End Where it Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one that ends it all.

Of all the cliché prom things to happen, Clint never thought his brother crashing the tail end of what had been a great night would be one of them. But it had happened. And it sort of sucked. And it was only the fact that he was burnt out from dancing that he had actually managed to fall asleep after sorting out that mess. Clint's certain he doesn't dream that night because if he did it would have probably been about Barney and he's thought about Barney enough for one lifetime.

But it's still a dream that wakes him up.

Natasha's irregular breathing brings him out of sleep right before she shoots up straight, clutching the sheets between her pale fingers.

She gives a little shudder, rubbing at her face, before slipping back down under the covers.

"Tash, you okay?" Clint asks, touching her arm. She startles, not knowing he was awake, but nods without looking at him.

He hears a sigh as she turns back onto her side, tucking her arms under the pillow. "Just a dream," she tells him, letting her shoulder press against his palm. "Sleep."

He can't though. He waits long enough for her to settle again, then he stands and stretches, padding around the room to organize the mess of clothes from last night: he drapes his suit and her dress over the desk chair; yanks socks out from under the bed and tosses them towards the hamper; organizes the array of shoes that are spread from one end of the room to the other.

He passes by the window twice, watching the sun come up. On his second pass he pauses. Just along the bottom of the glass he can see a shadow move, the long stretch of a body forming as it disappears around the side of the garage.

He looks over his shoulder at the alarm clock, blinking to focus.

It's barely six.

On a Saturday.

No way anyone's up yet.

Not even Phil.

And even if he was, it's not like he'd be doing garbage right now anyway.

Clint shrugs into some sweats and goes to investigate.

When he reaches the main hall that connects the diner and the house he can hear noises coming from the garage.

The pop of a hood. The twist of a cap. Wires being bent. Bolts hitting the floor.

It's unmistakable.

In that moment, Clint considers grabbing something to protect himself from an intruder until he remembers that everything he would use is already in the garage (probably a good point to bring up at the next family meeting). He forgoes that idea and instead centers himself with a breath, then bursts through the door.

On the other side stands Barney, arm deep in the front end of Phil's car.

The immediate panic rushes out of Clint, but on the next breath the dread returns and it wiggles itself deeper into his chest becoming not panic, but angry fear. "What'd you do?" he demands, racing down the steps towards Barney, snatching up the crowbar off a nearby shelf. "What the fuck did you do?"

Barney pulls his hands away from the car and takes a step back, eyeing the crowbar. His smile is slow and teasing. "What? Can't a guy admire a car? I watched you admiring your girlfriend last night all over it. Can't blame you, though. It's a nice car and she's hot."

"Don't mess with me, Barney," Clint seethes. "I know you've done this before."

"What are you talking about, Clint?"

"Don’t, okay! I saw you that night. The night before they died. Coming out of the barn. You did something to dad's truck!"

Barney tries for a moment, tries to brush it off, like Clint's talking crazy, but there's no lie here. Just time and washed out memories that are burned too deep to be completely forgotten.

"I know what you did," Clint says and his voice is low and terrible.

Barney straightens up under his gaze and sneers. "Astute little kid you were, huh? Never missed a thing. What'd they used to say in the circus . . . eyes like a hawk?"

"Fix it now!"

"Alright, alright, relax! _Jesus._ " Barney returns to the car and fiddles with some things under the hood. "He'll still need to have it looked at," he mutters. "I tweaked some things that don't fix so easily, but at least it won't run off the road now." He looks up and Clint holds the crowbar out. "What?" Barney smirks. "Still don't trust me? Get in, let's go for a ride, then. I'll show you."

"God dammit, Barney," Clint growls. "You haven't changed at all!"

"What are you talking about?" Barney says, eyes growing tight as his entire body stiffens under Clint's accusation. "This whole time I've been trying to save you."

"I don't need you to save me. I'm happy here. You're just looking out for you. What were you gunna do, turn up, make it look like an accident? Then snuggle up to me like old times?"

Barney grins a half-cocky smirk.

Suddenly there's noise from inside—the press of feet against hardwood—and Clint's about to open his mouth and shout when Barney kicks at the crowbar, sending it flying across the garage. Then he pulls something black out of his waistband.

A gun.

Using his shock, Barney swings his arm, the butt of the gun raining down towards Clint's face and he barely has time to close his eyes and unlock his jaw before everything goes dark.

. . .

It takes the house about an hour to realize something is wrong. The first sign is that Clint doesn't show up for his diner shift. Natasha searches the house for him, sends him half-a-dozen texts, and when she doesn't hear back, goes to find Phil.

At around the same time Steve comes in from the garage with Bucky and asks Phil where Lola is.

When Phil races out to the garage to find the car missing and Clint, it's kind of a no brainer, but at the same time it makes absolutely no sense.

"Maybe he took it for a joy-ride," Tony offers, leaning against the van.

"He wouldn't," Bruce says.

"Well, I don't know then."

"And you're sure he didn't say anything, Natasha?" Phil asks her again.

"No. He was up early, tidying up I think. He stopped by the window a while and then just left. I just figured he couldn't sleep."

"He must have seen something," Steve says. "From the window maybe?"

"Or," Tony says, "he's being a dutiful son and has gone to fill Lola's tank." He pats Phil on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it, they'll turn up."

"I'm not so sure."

The group turns to find Bucky crouched next to the ground right at the end of the garage, where pavement meets gravel. "These are drag marks," he says.

Tony comes up behind him. "Okay, Man Tracker, settle down."

"No, I'm serious," Bucky continues. "Here's where his shoes dug in. He might be unconscious. You know like dead weight."

Natasha covers her mouth. "Oh my god, Clint—"

"C'mon," Steve says quickly, pointing at the cameras mounted on the corner of the building. "The recordings are in Phil's office."

One after another, they all pile into the office, huddling around the desk as Tony replays the footage from this morning. They narrow it down to a twenty minute time slot and watch the video through.

Barney turns up, breaking into the garage, and they all visibly pale.

"What the hell's he doing in Lola?" Steve asks.

"Looks like he tried to rig Phil's car," Natasha says, looking over at him. "It's the same thing that happened to Clint's parents. Barney messed with the truck and the next morning it swerved off the road. Killed them instantly."

"We know he was looking at Phil's will," Bucky says. "And the fire didn’t work."

"Yeah," Tony mutters. "He must have known we'd all get a good chunk of change and then all he'd have to do is warm back up to Clint."

Natasha gasps.

"Jesus Christ," Phil says when he sees Barney pull the gun and clock Clint in the head; he pulls out his phone. "I'm calling the police."

Tony shakes his head as they pile out into the hall so Phil can hear the officer. "I can't believe he's been brother-napped in Lola. Isn't that just like Clint?"

"This road only goes one way," Steve says, stepping up to the window and pointing in the direction Barney drove off.

Tony nods. "Alright, so we get on it; follow it until we run into the car."

"That's not what I was suggesting," Steve says. "Plus that could take forever and eventually it will meet up with other roads once we get out of town."

"Good call." Tony stalks down the hall, back towards Phil's office. "Hey, Phil, do you still have that GPS I built you?"

He rubs his brow, on the phone. "In Lola's glove compartment."

Tony nods, pacing back down the hall. "Good enough."

"Don't you even think about it," Phil calls after them. "I'm not losing anymore of you right now."

Tony waits until Phil's occupied on the phone again, then says, "Okay, well, he'll be at least an hour."

Steve sighs. "Tony—"

"I'm just saying. Let's go for a little drive."

Natasha bullies past them all towards the garage, wrenching open the door.

"Look," Tony says. "Natasha's in. Nothing worse than dealing with the wrath of a woman scorned and all that. Right? C'mon Bruce, we've got coordinates to follow. We'll text Phil on the way; he can follow with the fuzz."

. . .

When Clint wakes up he's in the car, parked in a gravel pit on the edge of a bluff, like one of those scenic things you see in movies with the happy couple watching the sunset. Only there's nothing picturesque about this since Barney's still holding the gun on him.

Despite that he's not scared. Annoyed as hell maybe, but not scared. He doesn't really think his brother would shoot him. He'd get nothing out of it. And Barney never did anything unless there was something in it for him.

So Clint takes a moment and succumbs to the pain.

"Aw, what the fuck, Barn?" he says, gingerly pressing his fingers against his temple. The pain shoots straight to the back of his eyes and he sways, dizzy.

"Yeah, sorry. You're gunna have a nice goose egg."

"Are you?"

"What?"

"Sorry? About any of it?"

Barney twists his lips up into something painful. "I didn't want to hurt you, Clint."

"Bullshit. What did you think was gunna happen now, Barn? They'd pay out some ransom and you'd go driving into the sunset?"

"No, ugh." He rubs the butt of the gun against his forehead. Desperate. "You don't understand. I didn't know if you were really theirs. If I could trust you not to turn me in."

"So what? You brought me out here to dump the body if I don't give you the right answer?"

There's silence. Then: "I don't know."

"Barn," Clint says. He sighs. He can't believe they're doing this. Again. "You need help. Let me help you."

"Now you want to help me?"

"I . . . I don't think I can. Not anymore. But there are people who will."

Barney shakes his head. "I'm in trouble. I need money. Fast."

"Figured that."

"You don't understand, Clint. These guys will kill me."

"Oh, I understand!" Clint snaps. "I just don't know how you could be so stupid to get yourself wrapped up with them."

Barney's eyes narrow. "You're talking like the privileged little punk they made you again."

"Maybe," Clint says, because maybe it's true. He's not the same person Barney left behind. "So you were really gunna kill Phil?"

"No. I don't know. The insurance policy on that place alone, Clint . . ." He places the gun in his lap and rubs his hands over the steering wheel. After a beat he tips his head and stares at the road. "You know, Mom was never supposed to be in the truck that morning. She was an accident. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to take her from you."

Clint watches Barney for any hint of a lie. There's none there. Just plain old truth and it almost hurts more. "This whole time," he says, "you've carried that?"

"Yeah."

"Then why would you try to do it again to me?"

"Being who I am is a hard habit to kick. Desperate times I guess. And you know, it would have worked, too, if it wasn't for you shit disturbers trying to fuck everything up."

"Did you just try and quote Scooby-Doo at me?"

Barney laughs despite everything. "You used to like that show. I'd put it on whenever dad started yelling."

"I remember. But I was six, Barn. You don't know me anymore."

"Guess I don't, huh?"

There are sirens in the distance and Clint breathes a sigh of relief. He turns to Barney, both of them knowing what that sound means. "Give me the gun, Barn. Turn yourself in."

"You know I can't do that."

"Then what was this?" Clint says, struggling to keep his voice even. "What was the point, huh?"

"I don't know, wanted to say goodbye I guess."

Clint stares out the windshield. He can see clear across the bluff from here, across the tops of trees, and along the ridges of a mountain. It's nice. Peaceful even. That doesn't make sense. "Fine. Take the car and go, but leave the gun."

"Why?"

"Cause you're gunna try and shoot your way out of this, Barn. And you know how it's gunna end."

"It'll end like that either way, kid. Nothing can help me now." He swallows. "Just took me this long to figure it out."

Clint startles. _Kid._ That's what Barney used to call him, back when they _were_ just kids and he'd always seemed so much older and wiser, despite the rotten things he did. "Look, Barn, I want you to get help. I don't want you dead."

"Even after all the shit I pulled . . ." He shakes his head. "I won't be seeing you anymore, Clint. But you turned out okay. Better than I ever did, at least."

"Barney, no."

He nods. "Get out of the car, Clint."

"No!"

The sirens peel in closer and Barney starts the ignition. "Clint, get out!"

"No!" his lips tremble and he doesn't know why. He doesn't know what Barney's about to do, but it isn't going to be good. This isn't how he wanted things to end between them.

Barney picks up the gun in his lap and turns it on Clint again. "Now, kid, there's nothing else you can do for me."

Clint stiffens in his seat, staring Barney down. "You won't shoot me."

"Maybe not, but I can hit you really hard in the head again. Don't make me do that, kid."

Clint grabs the door handle behind him, shaking as he scoots away, his pants scuffing over Lola's leather seats. Barney lowers the gun as Clint's foot hits gravel. "Barney, please!"

"Just remember that it wasn't all bad," his brother says, tapping the steering wheel with his hand. "Some of it was kinda good I think." The corner of his mouth lifts up with a memory. "Goodbye, Clint."

He peels out of the parking lot then, leaving Clint in a cloud of dust, aching inside and outside.

A flurry of traffic arrives almost immediately after, bringing with it a crowd of noise and people. Some of them are cruisers and officers that peel off after Barney and others pull into the lot. There's a familiar van in the middle of it all and Clint stumbles towards it on shaky legs.

There's a blur of red and Natasha is the first one he sees. She's out of the van before it’s even come to a complete stop, Tony yelling at her to _hold on a second_ , but then she's flinging herself into his arms so hard he thinks he's going to collapse.

Her arms wrap around him and squeeze until he actually can't breathe, but he doesn't let go, just holds her tighter. There's a thud against his chest and he's pretty sure it's her heart beat.

"Are you okay?" she whispers against him, breathy and panicked, just on the verge of a breakdown.

He manages to nod. Then the others are there, joining the hug with flurry of questions, and the panic inside him dissolves completely.

"Barney's gone," he manages when he locks eyes with Phil.

"It's okay."

"How'd you find me?"

"Tony's insane GPS," Steve chirps.

A laugh bubbles up in his throat, but it's wet and holding back the sob in his chest. "I'm sorry about the car, Phil."

"I don't care about the car, Clint. I don't care."

"Sure," Tony says. "Now you don't care about the car."

Clint laughs for real this time, along with the rest of them, and for the moment it's enough.

Barney's gone, probably forever, and even though it makes him sadder than he thought possible, it'd been a long time coming. Barney was a scar that he'd carried on his heart since they were kids. Relying on people who always set out to hurt him had made him hard, but slowly, somehow, he'd found a family that wanted him; people to really love him and they'd healed over that scar.

Those were the people that made him happy. And even though family wasn't always about blood, sometimes it still was. But the real thing that Clint had learned was that most of all, family was the people you'd be willing to give blood for.

Speaking of: "C'mon, Clint," Phil says. "Let's get the paramedics to take a look at your head. I think you're bleeding."

"Sure," he mutters, holding tight to Natasha's hand as he's pulled through the crowd of officers.

To his surprise, Detective Wilson meets him at the back of the ambulance, looking as rough as ever. "They're tailing your brother now," he says. "With that GPS your friend made we should catch up to him within the hour."

"He's got a gun," Clint tells him. "Tell your men to be careful."

The Detective nods, grim but satisfied. "You did good, son. You're gunna make a good cop." He reaches for Clint's hand. "Look forward to working with you some day."

"Yeah," Clint says. "Thanks."

And just like that, it's over.

. . .

A few weeks later, when final exams have been written and passed, Clint rifles through his closet having a vague sense of déjà vu. "God, if I ever have to put on a suit again after this . . ." he complains.

"Hate to break it to you," Tony says, straightening the collar of his dress shirt, "but I'm sure there's a wedding in your future."

Clint startles, but Tony doesn't crack a joke. "You mean it?"

"If you and Natasha aren't the definition of forever, then I don't know what is. Better start thinking on that best man thing now; I know it'll be difficult between me and Steve, but just remember whose gunna be able to send you on an amazing honeymoon. I know Steve's got the charm and speech-making skills but, I'm your guy."

He slaps Clint's shoulder and for a moment Clint considers the civil war that decision will cause if he ever has to make it.

"C'mon, Phil wants graduation photos."

"Always with the photos," Clint groans.

"Shut it, Barton. You love it."

"Love what?" Steve says as they come out to the hall.

"That you and Bucky wear matching ties," Tony teases.

Steve just rolls his eyes. "Natasha said she'd meet us downstairs."

They convene on the back deck and the sun is already baking in the sky.

Natasha's waiting for them, hiding under the shade of one of the evergreens.

She's in a knee length floral print dress that Clint hasn't seen before (must be new). It's cute and summery and perfect for the post-graduation barbeque they're apparently hosting later tonight, when the sun sets and it's not so goddamn hot.

Clint sneaks up behind her and wraps both hands around her waist, tipping his head over her shoulder to kiss her cheek.

"You look nice," he says, inhaling. She smells nice, too.

She turns in his arms, threading her hands over his shoulders. "And you look like you're going to sweat."

"Probably, which is why Phil only gets the jacket for the pictures. After that I don't care."

"Well, Tony did threaten to show up in his bathing suit if SHIELD didn't get the air conditioning fixed before this afternoon's ceremony, so going sans jacket is probably fine."

As if on cue they hear Tony and Phil arguing inside:

"You can't wear shorts, Tony!"

"They're black!"

"But it's not formal attire."

"Phil, my ass is sweating. I don't care about formal attire."

Natasha drops her head into her hands and laughs. She spares a glance at Steve who's doing his best impasse impression to keep from spitting his water out all over the camera as Tony sighs dramatically.

"I'll be in a gown, Phil! No one will see my legs."

"Tony, for the love of god—"

"Fine, but I'm not changing my shoes!"

"What was he wearing on his feet?" Natasha asks Clint suddenly.

"Beach sandals."

Steve comes up beside them and groans. "We're gunna be late."

"Maybe we won't have to take as many photos," Clint says cheerfully.

Tony stomps onto the deck five minutes later. They pose for photographs, wiping beads of sweat away from their eyes, and finally Phil lets them retreat into the air-conditioned diner.

Sam arrives, looking spiffy in a shirt and tie. He's coming to the ceremony too, says he's watched them grow up and the least he can do is see them each get their diplomas. It feels right that he'll be there, Clint thinks. He's been through a lot with them, especially in the last year.

Hunter whistles from inside the kitchen and Sam jogs over to address some last minute prep.

It'll be the first time both Phil and Sam aren't at the diner while it's open. Peggy's still here, and she's in charge, but still, it's a big step.

When Phil meets them in the back room he's got the camera and extra batteries. "Everyone ready?" he asks.

"Not quite yet," Steve says, laying his hand on Phil's shoulder and guiding him into the front room. "We've got something to show you."

They give Phil a going away gift, not that they're leaving just yet, but it seems fitting as they cross this milestone.

Tony's had one of the tables reconstructed with the counter top he yanked out of the old diner, the one with all their names carved into the wood. He also managed to save a bunch of the old scraps that were taped to the wall and had them pressed beneath the fiber glass with photos of them, some as recent as prom. It's like a snap shot, or a year book from the last few years and if it doesn't sum up their family nicely, Clint doesn't know a better way.

Phil tears up at the sight and it's perfect.

"Just something to remember us by," Tony teases. "You know, on those boring nights when there aren't any customers. Don't want you to forget what my beautiful face looks like between September and Christmas holidays."

Phil swallows hard and it's that lack of words that says everything.

He pulls them all into a group hug and it's only by sheer luck (and Sam's lead foot) that they arrive before the ceremony starts.

. . .

The graduation ceremony is everything Clint expects it to be. Long. Sweaty. Boring. There are speeches and anecdotes and singing (when the hell did SHIELD get a choir?). He loses focus several times and spends most of it trading surreptitious glances with Natasha who sits a few rows over near Steve and Tony. (Damn alphabet.)

She grins at him, rolling her eyes when he starts yawning, but she's there and looks kind of excited about the whole thing, so he tries harder to pay attention.

Finally someone starts calling names out (he thinks it might be Fury) and a line amasses as they're directed on stage to get their diplomas. Clint thinks he's blinded by camera flashes (thanks Phil!) for a few minutes once he stretches his hand out to shake Fury's and then the Principal's. Ms. Hill is up there as well, passing along the appropriate paperwork and ushering kids where they need to be.

He and Bruce make it across early on and spend the rest of the time cheering on the rest of the group from their seats, clapping so hard their hands turn red.

Sam wolf whistles each time one of them takes the stairs and the crowd breaks into a chorus of relieved laughter.

When the whole thing is finished, Clint nudges his way through the crowd, looking for that flash of red. Most people have dispersed outside because it's actually cooler than the gym is right now, by it's still a tangle of limbs and arms and random hugs (do I know you?) and _congrats man_ and if he wasn't claustrophobic before he might just be now.

Natasha's already made her way out of the chaos (she's texted him this much), so he slips out a side door in the gym, ducking around the building towards the greenhouses.

Casting a glance over his shoulder for stragglers or onlookers, he jogs around the back and hoists himself up the unused ladder that's rusting along the side of the building.

It feels like ages since he's come up here. Not since those first few lunches he shared with Natasha when things were new and they were walking the friendship territory on a tightrope.

It had been in her first month at SHIELD and she'd scoped out his lunchtime hideouts. Honestly, he'd been impressed by her prowess. As far as he knew, he was the only one who'd ever found this place. He should have known it then . . . what they would become.

The roof is empty except for Natasha, highlighted against the blue sky, still wearing her black robe (he'd ditched his the moment the ceremony ended).

She stands, arms tucked across her chest, watching the masses of people below and for a minute Clint stops to just appreciate how far they've come . . . from this very rooftop in fact. And maybe how far they still have to go. Together.

"Hey," he says and she spins at the sound of his soles against the gravel roof.

"Hi."

"Nice ceremony, huh?"

"Pretty sure you were going to fall asleep on me a couple times."

"Nah, only while Sitwell was talking. Guy knows how to drone." Clint crosses the roof and comes to stand beside her. It's a great view really. High enough they can see across the entire school, but not so high that they can't make out the little things. "So," he says. "Why the rooftop?"

She shrugs slowly. "Guess I wanted it to end where it all started."

"Is this where it started?" he asks, the corner of his mouth kicking up. "I recall a Chemistry class?"

"This is where you asked me to come and see your band, remember?"

"Ah, yeah," Clint says, wondering what ever happened to that. He supposes life got in the way. He found her. Steve found Bucky. Tony found a project . . . or twelve.

"You asked me to come," Natasha continues, "and I said no. That I couldn't because of Ivan. But when you left me on the roof that day and still gave me the address, even though I'd said no over and over, I knew then that I was going to come. This is where I decided that I wanted to be your friend. I wanted to try. Because you were trying and you barely knew me. I thought . . . maybe it could mean something more."

"So this is where it all began then," he says, equal parts wistful and grateful. "Guess it's fitting that it should end here then."

She nods. "I was terrified back then, of what I was getting myself into. But I wanted to know you. I wanted . . ." she looks up at him and there's a truth in her eyes that's impossible to ignore. "It was the first decision I'd made for myself in a very long time."

"I'm glad it was for me."

She snags his hand from where it hangs by his side and taking her cue he snaps her closer, his other hand coming around to rest on her hip. With a gentleness that makes his skin tingle, her lips brush his and it's wonderful. A moment later she opens her mouth to him and he surges against her, deepening the kiss and pouring every unsaid thing into her, like he might be able to tell her with breath alone.

When they break apart the moment breaks as well and the seriousness bleeds away and all Clint feels is giddy and light and like, if he tried, he might be able to fly.

He wraps his arms around Natasha and twirls her around in her black gown.

She giggles, holding tight to his arms until he puts her down.

"Well, we made it," he says.

"We did."

"So, what d'you want to do now?"

She tucks her hand tight against his and shrugs. "I guess I could go for a sandwich."

"Pastrami with a little bit of sauerkraut?"

She nods. "Sam's specialty. And maybe some cherry pie."

"Yeah, that sounds good." He tips his head towards the ladder. "Let's go home."

* * *

  **EPILOGUE**

**Not really a one-shot epilogue, but more like a snap-shot of where I think this universe could have gone had I written beyond high school. (Agh, look at my babies out in the world!)**

 

Despite it feeling foreign and weird and completely scary, life after Sunnyside moves on for Clint and Natasha.

They get the whole school thing sorted out, starting at their respective facilities, joining clubs, meeting new people, but at the end of the day, it's still just the two of them in their tiny little dorm apartment with Clint's purple bullseye sheets, empty takeout containers, and too many piles of laundry.

Clint thinks it's perfect.

Natasha thinks it's a mess. (But it's still perfect.)

In her second year of university she finally decides on a direction and studies languages and communications and cultures. There's even more school after that because she's good and the professors what her as a TA, so she opts to complete a Master's program and even spends six weeks studying in Budapest (Clint thinks he'll go nuts without her and if it weren't for Skype he probably would have). It's the longest they've ever been apart and they both feel it. When she returns he's hard pressed to let go of her and for a few days they don't get out of bed.

Natasha's fluent in so many things by the time she's reached her final year  of school that Clint wonders if she'll want to whisk away to live in some foreign country to immerse herself in these strange and alluring cultures, but she simply shakes her head and smiles at his silly question.

"I'm happy right here," she tells him. Then a smirk tugs at her lips. "But the occasional weekend trip couldn't hurt. Tony does have access to that jet."

When she finishes school she goes to work for Tony, or rather Stark Industries, as an international translator. The money is good, _really good_ , and she enjoys the work.

So does Clint, surprisingly, and not for reasons he would have expected.

When she starts entertaining big-wig consultants from overseas, her attire becomes mostly silk blouses and tight pencil skirts. Clint never thought he had a kink, but the hot secretary look is his complete undoing and he definitely spends most evenings wrapped around her, stockings optional, making her lose her damn mind. He especially likes the nights that leave her sated and unable to walk straight until the next morning: when she's almost too spent to rally because he's milked every ounce of pleasure from her.

Those are the nights for the books.

Clint goes to college and then to university, studying criminology and police courses, and finally on to work for the NYPD. He's got killer aim and moves through the ranks quickly, veering off from his Detective goal at some point and lands himself on a Special Forces task unit. And if he spends some classified time repelling off rooftops, well, only Natasha knows about those nights.

The only other thing she knows for sure is that he looks damn good in a uniform.

Somewhere between school and life, they get married. It's small. Just a thing at city hall because it's really just paperwork for them because they've meant a lot more to each other for a long time now. Marriage changes nothing. Not even Natasha's last name, because it's one part of her past she wants to keep; as far as Clint's concerned being a Barton is nothing to scream about and they can't have kids so there'll never be anything to fight about with the name thing.

They go on a honeymoon though and see small parts of the world they never knew existed and Natasha drinks locals under the table and sets records that will probably live on forever in the dives they visit.

When things in the real world feel a bit more stable between them, they move out of their crummy but beloved apartment and into something with a little more finesse in a less shady area of New York.

It's a little bit bigger, recently renovated, with high ceilings and ensuite laundry, nestled right above a lovely family run bakery. The recently widowed woman who owns the shop bakes them fresh bread every Sunday and tells Clint that he reminds her of her husband. There's a little photo of the two of them on the wall of the bakery and they look like a fairy tale love. If it's anything close to what he feels for Natasha then he knows losing him must have left a terrible hole in her heart. Slowly the bread stops coming and the bakery doesn't quite open every day. The old woman passes away one evening in her rocking chair and by the time Clint and Nat come home from the visitation her kids have already put the bakery up for sale.

Clint doesn't want to leave their home, but the apartment is owned by the building and whoever buys it is probably going to turn it into a parking lot.

Natasha stares at the store front, saying it really is a shame, since it's the perfect amount of space for a small studio.

Clint calls in some favours and suddenly STARK industries owns the building because Pepper says it's good for Tony's image if he's investing in local arts programs.

Natasha takes on the project with fierceness; the studio is ready in under three months and she's running classes by the fourth. Her student population grows quickly and sometime between becoming a ballet expert and helping her keep track of tiny-toed ballerinas dressed in pink on his days off, she notices that Clint watches the kids with much more than just fascination. It's desire. A cold chill sweeps her insides and it takes her a while to admit it to herself, what it is. Even longer until she's able to talk to him about it.

"Clint?" she says one night.

"Mmm?" he says, slowing as he trails kisses along her inner thigh. She's been unusually quiet and unresponsive as he's been exploring her skin, which means she's been thinking far too hard about something. He'd been trying to get her out of her own head, but maybe this was one of those things you couldn't really just forget about.

"It's okay, isn't it? That it's just us. You're okay with that?"

He props up on his elbows. "Of course, why would you ask that?"

"I don't know, just the way you watch the kids from class."

"Well, they are cute little buggers, aren't they?" He grins against her stomach when she laughs, breaking the heaviness of the conversation. "But they probably talk all the time and never eat their vegetables. Kids, ugh. But a dog? You know, I wouldn’t mind a dog. I think we're ready for that kind of responsibility."

She bites her lip, pulling his chin up. "The pet store around the corner has a new litter of puppies."

"Is that a yes?"

"I suppose. But I don't do house training or chewed up furniture. That's your job."

"Yes ma'am!" He grins, reaching up to meet her for a kiss before she's pushing his head back down where she wants it most.

They buy the dog the next morning and Natasha lets him choose because, "It's your dog, Clint! I'm just here for moral support."

He picks the golden retriever with the big paws and floppy ears. It's a cute little thing and Clint laughs when it goes tumbling off the backseat of the car in its haste to reach grass.

That first night is good. He manages to get the dog outside to pee before there are any accidents and locks him up for the night in his training crate in the kitchen.

The first thing the dog does the next morning when Clint lets him out is take a leak on Natasha's dance slippers.

Clint holds his coffee mug to his chest and just stares for a solid minute, like the universe might undo itself if he's quiet enough. The dog simply trots by his feet and rolls over, scratching at the base of the couch with its oversized paws. "Aw, dog, no!"

With the dog under one arm and Natasha's slippers under the other, Clint makes his way to the kitchen, deposits the dog in his training crate and starts running warm soapy water into the sink. "You're one lucky bastard, you know that? If Tash saw this you'd be out on the streets, combing empty pizza boxes with the bums."

He looks sternly at the dog who simply flips over and starts scratching at the newspaper lining his crate. Thank god Natasha sleeps in on Saturdays.

"Clint?" he hears her call later from the kitchen. "Did the dog pee on my shoes?"

"Nooo?" he replies, pausing the game, waiting to hear what she'll do next. He scrambles after the dog who's gone running down the couch at the sound of her voice, scooping him up under his arm.

"Then why are they on the drying rack?"

Clint tries to come up with something on the spot but his mind is decidedly blank. Awesome.

Natasha appears in the doorway, eyeing them both with that gaze that makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle, and not for a good reason. "Mmm hmm," she says, curling her mouth into a thin line before taking her shoes and heading to the studio.

"Lucky bastard," Clint whispers at the dog again.

. . .

"Lucky bastard? Is that the name you've decided on?" Natasha asks one evening as he's feeding the dog his pizza, much to her chagrin.

Clint shrugs. "Might shorten it to Lucky. Don't want your little dancing minions to pick up on it."

She leans over the back of the couch and kisses the top of his head, scratching her nails along the back of his neck. He wears his hair shorter now than when she met him and it's become a sort of fascination for her. "I see how that could be bad for business."

"Just looking out," Clint agrees.

She looks down to where the dog is shedding all over her new quilt. "You're lucky you're cute," she murmurs, catching the dog for a scratch behind the ears.

. . .

Clint walks Lucky by the studio while she's teaching classes, trying to get him used to all the sounds and smells of the city (and there's a lot). Natasha rolls her eyes as the kids wander away from the mirrors to _oooooh_ and _awwww_ at _Mr. Clint's_ new puppy (who is definitely not allowed in the studio because the floors are not made for dirty paws, Clint!). With their little faces smudged against the glass, Clint's gotta admit they're real cute.

And for a flicker of a moment his thoughts run away like they so often do and he thinks about a little red headed girl babbling away in broken Russian while he teaches her to shoot. His eyes skim up to find Natasha smiling at him through the window and the bubble breaks. She's enough. Always been enough. Sometimes it's just nice to think about.

. . .

The following month Clint is called out to a job. It's brutal and nasty. Double homicide—a teen mom and her seven year old son. The boyfriend gets hauled out of a crack house by Clint's team the next night, his hands still covered in blood.

The only thing Clint can see when he closes his eyes for the next six weeks are those pale little fingers peeking out from beneath a bloodied, white sheet. It makes him sick and after that he stops having those runaway moments filled with redheaded children. Whatever allusions he's been harbouring for them . . . whatever subconscious ideas . . . he can't. He won't. The world is still a cruel place. He knows this better than anyone. And there are just some things you can't unsee. Some things that run too deep.

Maybe fate had known all along. They weren't cut out for kids.

. . .

As business picks up for Natasha, keeping her in the studio more often, and Lucky outgrows his puppy days, they move downstairs into the apartment behind the studio because it's bigger and rent out the top to a woman for real cheap since it's only to pay the utilities.

Her name's Melinda and she's a no-nonsense kind of woman, but she's got a kind smile.

She works with troubled youth and ends up with a set of twins from overseas that end up orphaned. They're both five and speak very little English. Natasha makes some sort of connection, her Russian fairly close to the dialect they're used to.

The longer they stay the more attached her and Clint get to the twins. Wanda's gentle and shy, Pietro a whirlwind of a kid, but fiercely protective of his sister.

Nat teaches Wanda to dance. They spend quiet afternoons after class going over steps. Clint and Pietro do less things that involve ballet and more things that involve running because the kid's got a never ending supply of energy. He races Lucky across the dog park and sometimes on the weekends Clint and Nat will babysit while May runs errands or steps out for last minute emergencies with her other cases.

It becomes normal, having the kids around, almost to the point that they miss them when they're at school, but it isn't until May tells them that the twins have been placed with groups homes across the city that Nat and Clint realize they love them.

Nat never thought she'd have kids, not just because it was biologically impossible, but because she never really thought she'd make a great mom. Clint's a good dad though, even if he doesn't know it. He's silly with Pietro, knows all the funny boy noises to make, but sweet with Wanda because she still likes to be picked up and hide her face against his neck when people talk to them on the street.

And maybe this was always how it was supposed to go. How their family was supposed to come together.

They adopt the twins and have to have that conversation about last names they never thought they'd have, eventually settling on a hyphen. It's a lot for a five year old to write down, so when Pietro trails off after the sixth letter with a fancy squiggle Clint chuckles and thinks he's well on his way to becoming a doctor.

They renovate the building again so the upstairs and downstairs apartments connect.

Uncle Tony comes in with his band of contractors and hooks up all the latest and greatest and by the time he's done being climbed on like a human jungle gym he swears he's never having kids of his own. He also whacks Clint on the back with a sappy congratulations and dotes on Wanda and Pietro in true Tony Stark fashion.

Natasha doesn't know how many phone conversations end with, _no, you cannot buy Wanda a horse_. _Not even one of those mini ones._

Tony also builds in a security system because he's paranoid now that there are kids and there's a weird voice that talks to Nat whenever she comes and goes from the house. Sometimes it even reminds her to buy milk and toilet paper.

Tony calls it Vision and the kids like it because it tells them stories in their Native tongue and helps with homework and even perfect s Clint's already pretty good mac-n-cheese recipe.

"How did we live without one of these things?" Clint asks when it reminds them they still need nacho chips for the super bowl party they're apparently throwing.

Clint grabs the car keys and his wallet. He's got the weekend off because he can do things like that now.

After the twins were officially adopted he put in for a transfer. It means he spends more time behind a desk now, but that's mainly because he wants to be there to pick them up after school and to watch Wanda's dance class (not just because his wife looks real good in spandex, though she does) and take Pietro to soccer practice.

Having kids is strange in a way, Clint thinks. There are things that he thinks about now that he never had to worry about, like the arrangement of stuffed animals that is required to make little girls go to sleep and how much sugar certain young boys are allowed to have before bedtime.

There are also the new responsibilities like school and sports and clubs. It's a new avenue for them both, but Natasha takes to it with flair.

And as they attend PTA meetings and school concerts for the kids, and get ogled by all the other parents, Clint realizes just how lucky he really is. He holds Natasha's hand and puffs out his chest because this is his family now.

And afterwards people think they're just so sweet because the twins are just adorable, with Wanda clinging to his neck as he holds her with one arm and Pietro wrapped around Natasha's legs; it's a sight that makes people swoon.

The fact that they just seem to fit also doesn't hurt. _You have a beautiful family_ , people tell them. And it's the truth.

Natasha definitely sees it and she definitely doesn't miss how the other women ogle her husband. His muscles and tone. The attractive smile, managing to maintain that boyish charm after all these years. The quiet confidence he carries himself with. The piercing blue eyes. How can you resist a man snuggling a brown eyed six-year-old?

And Clint definitely doesn't miss the hard stares and passing glances as his wife bends over to capture Pietro in a hug. She's still a beauty, and he's not just biased. Time has been kind to her and she looks as young as she had all those years ago when they met. And the dancing's kept her fit. She can still kick his ass when they spar, too. That doesn't stop the little flares of jealousy that flash up in the pit of his stomach though and if their love making is a little more tender on those nights, a little slower as Clint lingers over every inch, reminding her that she belongs to him, well, Natasha's never been one to turn down his affections.

And as their life goes on—crazy and busy and wonderful—so does it for everyone else.

Tony and Pepper continue to tip toe around each other, as they have for years. She does work for him though, and does a better job running his company that he does.

Bruce side partners with Tony, consults a lot, but his work in biophysics takes him all over the world, into some of the poorest populations and there he meets a doctor named Beth and the two of them hit it off and he smiles a lot more now.

Thor did a stint as the leading man in a five season show that aired on TV before retiring his good looks to take over his father's legacy, running for governor.  Last they heard he and Loki still talk, so that's good. He married Jane once she finished school and he chases her all over the country as she follows meteors.

Darcy hasn't been arrested yet as far as Clint knows (and he can check that kind of stuff), or killed anyone, so that's about as much as they can hope for with her.

Steve followed his passion and went to art school where he completed his Master's and after a brief time lecturing at a local college, went back to teacher's college and got a job at a local high school. He's everyone's favourite art teacher and his house is full of drawings from his students.

Bucky went into contracting. It started as a side project thing and then with Tony's help, turned into a more regular steady thing and before he knew it BARNES CONTRACTING was a thing and he's currently heading projects all over the city, many of them with the STARK name attached.

Bucky and Steve end up having the real wedding, though they keep it small, just good friends and family. They hold the reception at the diner in late spring and it's warm and they barbeque and the twins run around, Wanda throwing flower petals around the yard and Pietro hanging off Bucky's metal arm.

Nat thinks it's enough to scare them off kids forever, but a year later they adopt a little girl of their own (they're working up to a Pietro) and name her Sarah after Steve's mom.

The diner is even more crowded on family holidays now, but they wouldn't have it any other way and Phil dotes on his grandchildren with a vigour Clint thinks is all just a little bit perfect.

Old friends still show up for the holidays now and then and it makes it even more special.

Peggy and Angie show up, still together, still very classy.

Peggy's working with the US military now, consulting on some hush-hush stuff they never really get an answer about; Angie, for her part, eventually takes over managing the diner, so Phil can micromanage everything else in his new role as grandpa.

Clint's also happy to see Sam and Maria show up together.

And as he looks around at the new generation that has sprung up in this crazy little family, Clint can't help but grin, seeing how far they've really come. He knew that Natasha would have been enough for him, forever, but then these two little gap-toothed, smiling faces showed up and he didn't know what to do with himself.

But of all the things he thought he'd be _no good_ at in his life, especially given his history, it turns out that dad isn't one of them. He's great at being a parent. Loves it even. And with Natasha by his side, he can't wait for whatever comes next.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's officially the end. Sunnyside has closed up for the indeterminable future. (Tears! All the tears!)
> 
> I'm sincerely gunna miss writing in this universe. I love the little family that they've become and will definitely miss getting inside the head of this Clint. I feel like they've learned a lot and I've enjoyed picking apart the characters and exploring their relationships further.
> 
> The characters have all changed so much and faced their demons.
> 
> Clint is all grown up, he believes in himself more, that he is worth something, and learned that we are not defined by our pasts.
> 
> Natasha. Ugh, I literally just want to wrap up her and Clint in a bubble. He came in as this shining light when everything in her life was dark, but somewhere along the way she became the sassy, strong individual that is so key to her character, but the love she has for Clint is one of my favourite things about her.
> 
> Tony was always a gem to write and his one liner's gave me life. I also liked exploring the more complex side of his character.
> 
> I also feel like Bruce has a big struggle of his own that I never dipped into but the relationship between him and Tony was always something I thought was great about their characterization. 
> 
> Aw, baby blushing Steve was the moral compass of a lot of the interactions and I loved watching him come into his own and learn to choose between being what he wanted and being what everyone else expected. I think it speaks a lot to the difficulty it is to be a leader.
> 
> And Bucky surprisingly grew on me over the series, coming in first as Steve's love interest, but also as a counterpoint to Natasha's story. He's still mysterious and alluring and I love that about him, but he also wormed his way into the family and I honestly feel bad for leaving his poor mother home alone all the time.
> 
> My biggest regret for this series is that I seem to have lost Thor somewhere along the way. He was always a favourite of mine but as time went on I guess Bucky sort of slipped into the mix and replaced him in the core cast of this universe.
> 
> Also there was a big part of me that wanted to introduce Phil a love-interest because he is just such a sweet man and deserves all the love after everything he put up with, but again that got lost in the never-ending kid drama. (Ah, poor Phil, someday though).
> 
> And Barney . . . ah, Barney. I hated him because of all the shit he put Clint through but I loved him because I'm a sucker for the potential for a good redemption arch. But to be honest I don't know how exactly his story ends. I guess that's up to everyone to kind of figure out on their own, however they interpreted it. I was toying with something at one point, but that would have meant playing with the trigger warnings, and I honestly couldn't bring myself to do it on paper. So Barney is . . . where ever you feel like he should be.
> 
> I'm a sucker for second chances too and there was a while there where I was considering having him tough loved on until he went straight, but I realized he was an essential part to Clint's arch, starting from the very beginning.
> 
> Anywho, that's my two cents about the series.
> 
> But if the muse ever strikes again, or if there are particular one-shots you guys want to see, I am always up for adding to the series.
> 
> As an avid fan-fic author that leaves a never-ending trail of unfinished fics, this feels like a momentous accomplishment. So if you've been here from the very beginning, I thank you for coming along for the ride.
> 
> And as always (and I guess for the last time?) I look forward to hearing what you guys thought of the ending. You're comments and input make my day and I'll be sad to say goodbye (at least until I figure out my next fic).
> 
> If you're so inclined you can also find me on tumblr: realizewherereallies
> 
> But I warn you, I am Clintasha trash ;P
> 
> Muah! And thanks for reading! :D

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back! This is the beginning of the end for my babies, working through their emotions and just generally being angsty teenagers with a side of too many feels. This is the last story planned in the series and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it :)


End file.
